


When Love Fails

by silentdescant, Sulwen



Series: First Mistakes, Second Chances [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Beating, Belting, Bloodplay, Body Dysmorphia, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, Cocaine, Codependency, Control Issues, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Ecstasy - Freeform, F/M, Fights, Future Fic, Heterosexual Sex, Homophobia, Humiliation, Infidelity, Injury, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multiple Partners, Near Death Experience, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Orgasm Control, Overdosing, Painplay, Physical Abuse, Power Dynamics, Recovery, Rough Sex, S&M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Identity, Sexual Violence, Submission, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 158,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as rebound sex quickly turns into a downward spiral of co-dependent addiction. Adam and Tommy both bring heavy baggage to their relationship: Adam is being pushed harder and harder every day by an unsympathetic manager and is starting to long for the no-consequences life of anonymity he’s left behind, while Tommy carries the weight of a string of infidelities and personal insecurities. Their relationship takes them to a darker place than either of them could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Leave @therudebunny feedback for her art [here](http://rude-bunny.livejournal.com/19797.html)!
> 
> Download the fanmix for the fic [here](http://silentdescant.livejournal.com/418058.html)!
> 
> Special thank you to our awesome betas, @isweedan and @theonecalledeli!!
> 
> In regards to the warnings listed, we decided to err on the side of caution, and some of these warnings are not prominently featured in the fic. If you have questions about the content, we are happy to provide clarification!

  


Adam pins his boyfriend with an irritated look. The restaurant is crowded, and it’s loud, sure, but they’ve been chatting all night without a problem. Jake’s just not paying attention. Adam follows his gaze and finds their waiter--cute, dark-haired, skinny--at the end of it. He sets his fork down on the table, pulls his napkin off his lap, and leans forward.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Jake turns back to face Adam, smiling a little guiltily. He makes what should be an unattractive expression look like something in a TV commercial, something enticing and seductive, but Adam can see right through it. He rolls his eyes. He’s known Jake for too long; those false expressions, those _acts_ don’t work on him anymore.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

Jake hesitates and flashes Adam a smile full of bleached white teeth. This smile is even more fake, and anger flashes through Adam’s chest as Jake says, “Um. No. Sorry. Tell me again, baby.” His voice is charming and sweet, but Adam doesn’t want charming and sweet. He wants _honest_ , the one thing Jake hasn’t given him yet.

“No. Not if you’re just gonna ignore me like that,” Adam snaps. Jake huffs and looks away, and Adam relents a little, sighing. “Come on, this is supposed to be a fun night out. Let’s have fun, okay?”

Jake nods and downs the rest of his glass of wine before standing up. “Yeah, of course. I’m having fun.” Adam sees him catch the waiter’s eye again. Adam looks over and sees the waiter--what was his name again? Matt? Mark?--watching them leave and blushing, and he reaches down to grab Jake’s hand in a tight grip, glaring back. Matt-or-Mark’s face falls, and he quickly busies himself in a stack of dirty dishes. _Good_.

“Jake, come on.”

Adam weaves through the tables, pulling Jake along with him. There’s a knot in the pit of his stomach, and he grits his teeth hard against the feeling, hoping the fresh air outside will clear his head a little.

Jake stumbles behind him and curses under his breath. “Jesus, Adam! I can fucking walk on my own, you know,” he hisses, pulling his hand away.

He’s got a cigarette between his lips before they even get out into the back alley, and Adam pulls his lighter out of his pocket, a motion born of old habit. Their usual posse of paparazzi is standing across the street, surrounding Adam’s car. He shakes his head a little and rubs his eyes. He’s gotten used to them in the past six years, but the paps are the last thing he wants to deal with right now.

Jake’s lips purse around the cigarette as he takes a shallow drag, and Adam feels his blood heat a bit despite his annoyance. Even after all this time, all the glossy magazine covers and black-and-white fashion spreads, he hasn’t quite gotten used to that face. He presses his body close and rests a hand on the back of Jake’s neck, leaning in to whisper in Jake’s ear.

“Have I told you today how much I love your mouth? Can’t wait to get in the car, get that mouth on me...”

Jake hums, sounding profoundly uninterested. “Couldn’t that wait until we get home? I hate tasting like come all night.”

The smoke in the air suddenly tastes sour, choking and thick in Adam’s throat, and he moves away, taking a deep breath and narrowing his eyes. “I’ll buy you a fucking breath mint.”

The movement takes him into the yellow light of a streetlamp, and he hears a sudden rush of noise from across the street as the paps recognize his face. They’re swarmed in seconds, and suddenly flashbulbs are going off left and right, blinding them. Adam reaches for Jake’s wrist.

“Don’t,” Jake snaps, snatching his hand out of Adam’s reach.

Adam grabs him by the arm and yanks him close to hiss in his ear, “Not now, do not do this now.”

He lets Jake go and they both push their way through the crowd--easier than it used to be. They know Adam’s reputation. He and Jake make their way around to either side of Adam’s car, and Jake throws Adam a heated look over the roof before ducking inside. Adam rolls his eyes again as he follows.

“You always fucking do this,” Jake says as soon as the doors slam shut. “I can handle myself, okay? You don’t need to always protect me or guide me around or whatever. I’m a grown fucking man, Adam.”

“Yeah, a grown fucking man who was eyefucking the waiter from the minute we sat down.”

“Jesus Christ, would you chill the fuck out? I was not ‘eyefucking the waiter’, I was trying to get a refill. You read way too much into _everything_ I do, especially if there’s another guy involved.”

Adam lets himself sink back into his seat and thinks about everything he’d rather being doing. Anything. Anything but this. “Baby...I’m trying, okay? I just want you all for myself.”

“I’m my own person, Adam. You can’t have me all to yourself. I belong to myself. And to my career. I thought you understood that.”

There’s a long, heavy pause, and Adam forces himself to meet Jake’s eyes. “What were you doing last week in Paris? I called you. A lot.”

“I know. Why do you think I didn’t answer? I can’t be in constant contact, for fuck’s sake. I was there on business. You knew that. You knew I’d travel a lot when we _started_ this.”

“Travel, not cut me off completely! I worried. You didn’t have to make me worry for no reason. Or is there a reason? Something you’re not telling me?”

“Adam, there’s nothing.” Jake takes out his pack of cigarettes again but he doesn’t light one. He doesn’t have a lighter. Adam doesn’t give him his. “Not that it matters, because--and let me say this again, since you don’t ever get it--I don’t belong to you. If I want to go and fuck some guy in Paris, it’s really none of your goddamn business.”

Adam’s stomach drops through the floor, and his hands clench into tight fists, fingernails digging into his palms. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “Jake...why are you even with me? Sometimes you really seem like you don’t want to be.”

“Well, I did, once. Before I found out how fucking crazy you are,” Jake snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest, fist clenched around his cigarette pack, squishing it out of shape.

“I opened my house to you. I wrote _songs_ for you. That’s what people in relationships _do._ That’s not crazy, you asshole, that’s _love_.” It’s the first time Adam’s let himself say the word in a long time, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t. It feels almost slimy in his mouth, distasteful.

“Yeah, people in relationships totally tell each other what to do, where to go, who to talk to, who _not_ to talk to... I can see it now!” Jake’s voice is getting shrill and it’s grating on Adam’s nerves. “You are the most controlling asshole I’ve ever been with.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so controlling if you could just fucking control _yourself_ ,” Adam barks. He grabs the steering wheel with both hands and stares straight ahead. He doesn’t want to see Jake’s beautiful fucking face. Not right now. “I don’t feel like dancing. Let’s just go home.”

But Jake shakes his head, vehement enough that Adam can see it even out of the corner of his eye. “No. I need a drink-- _god_ , do I need a drink. We’re almost there anyway.”

“I don’t think we should be out in public right now--”

“Well, I want to be in public. I’d rather be in public than locked in your fucking house with you all night. Come on, pull over. Let me out.”

“This is the middle of the--”

“Then take me to the fucking club. You don’t have to come in.”

They drive the rest of the way in uncomfortable silence, only to be met with more flashbulbs and annoyingly persistent men shouting their names. Adam shields his face with one hand, groaning. “I seriously can’t do this right now, Jake.”

“This is the only time to do it, because after this, we’re over.”

“What?” Adam lunges, reaching for Jake and bruising his ribs on the gearshift, but he’s already out of the car, out of reach. Adam throws open the door and races around, trying to catch Jake before he disappears into the club. “You can’t just--Jake, wait, stop! Jake!”

Jake whirls around right in front of the door, cheeks flushed with anger, and Adam nearly runs into him. Jake puffs himself up to his full height and glares, and even in six-inch heeled boots and hair perfectly coiffed, Adam feels small. “You want to know what I was doing in Paris? Jaques. That’s what I was doing in Paris. Or should I say, _who_ I was doing in Paris.”

Adam feels all the air leave his lungs. He can’t even focus on Jake’s face anymore; he feels faint. “You... How could you do this? How could you--”

“Because I got tired. I got tired of your clingy fucking bullshit, and I got tired of being ‘America’s Gay Sweethearts’. I got tired of being Adam Lambert’s fucking boyfriend,” he shouts, punctuating it with a shove right in the middle of Adam’s chest, sending him tripping a few steps backward as the cameras flash wildly. It takes a moment for Adam to regain his footing, but Jake hasn’t stopped ranting, and his words make Adam feel even more off-balance. “That’s not who I am, and I’m done. I didn’t love you. I wasn’t your soulmate. We were supposed to have fun, and it stopped being fun a long time ago. So...I’m out. This is over.”

The frantic clicking of all the flashbulbs and shutters finally filters back in through the fog clouding Adam’s brain and instinct takes over. He stumbles back to his car in a daze, ignoring the questions shouted his way. He needs to get home, get somewhere private, where he can let himself feel his whole world collapsing.

He speeds away from the club, blowing through stop signs and traffic lights in his rush to get home, but he doesn’t quite make it before what Jake said catches up to him. _This is over_. Adam looks at the empty passenger seat, the crushed cigarette pack lying there, and the tears start flowing down his cheeks, hot and angry. By the time he parks his car in the driveway, he’s sobbing uncontrollably, clutching at the leather-covered steering wheel like it’s a life preserver.

His phone beeps, signalling a new text message. Of course--Jake couldn’t have dumped him anywhere more public. He needs to go inside. He needs to change out of his clubbing clothes and take a shower and wash his face. Instead, he buries his face in his arms and lets himself cry, lets the memories come as they will. Jake’s quick, flashing smile. The sinuous way his body would arc just as Adam thrust into him. How it felt to welcome him home after a long trip away.

Adam pulls out his phone and deletes the three new texts without even reading them. He can’t deal with his friends’ questions tonight, and he certainly can’t deal with Chad bitching him out for not controlling his image. _Realness_ , he thinks to himself, and even in his head it sounds like sarcasm. Right now he thinks he’d rather have the fantasy.

Once he’s cried himself dry, Adam unbuckles his seat belt and stumbles up to the front door, feeling numb all over. He fumbles his keys three times trying to fit the right one in the lock, and he trips over Jake’s shoes where he’d left them in the foyer. He kicks at them roughly, knowing it’s stupid, not caring. Fucking shoes. Fucking Jake.

He slumps against the wall and lets his keys fall to the floor with a clatter, trying to summon the energy to get up the stairs and into bed. In his pocket, his phone beeps again, and he wrenches it out, wanting to hurl it against the wall, break it into tiny, non-beeping pieces. He takes a deep breath and glances at the screen, fully expecting another panicked message from Chad.

Instead, the screen glows with a name he hasn’t seen, hasn’t really even thought about in, god, well over a month, and his mouth twitches involuntarily into the tiniest ghost of a smile. He clicks the message open.

 _ur song on the radio babyboy, fuckin sick!!!! :)_

Adam laughs. The sound is too loud, echoing in the empty house, but his smile is stronger, and he’s standing up straight again. He doesn’t think he can hold up a conversation right now, but he knows Tommy will understand when he just sends a smile of his own back.

By the time he’s made it through an abbreviated version of his nightly routine, Adam feels numb again, and he falls into bed heavily, not even bothering to get under the covers. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t set an alarm, and he turns his phone all the way off. The bed feels too big without another body in it, but Adam’s almost glad of the space. He spreads himself out, rubs his cheek against his pillow, and tries not to think about anything, staring out into the familiar darkness of his bedroom until sleep takes him.

  
*

Tommy doesn’t look up when he hears Maddie come in through the garage door, just listens to her bustling around the kitchen, setting her keys on the counter and opening the fridge for a bottle of water. She’s always thirsty when she gets back from rehearsal. Tommy spares a glance for her long, slender legs when she pads into the living room still dressed in her tights and gauzy skirt, but the TV catches his attention again and he mumbles hello while Maddie sits down beside him and plants a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey, baby, what’re you watching?” she asks in a tone entirely too bright for the dark evening.

Tommy grabs the plastic cup sitting on the side table and takes a long drink to keep himself from sighing. He hates it when people talk during movies. But this one actually kind of sucks, and Maddie’s all flushed and warm, and Tommy knows she’ll be limber -- she’s always extra flexible when she’s been practicing every day like this. He licks his lips and smiles at her and says, “Saw 2. But I can turn it off if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll watch with you,” she replies, sliding right up against his side and resting her head on his shoulder. Her hair’s pulled back in a tight bun, little wisps escaping here and there, and they tickle where they brush against his neck, making him smile.

She sits with him for a few minutes, but Tommy can tell she’s bored with the movie already. It’s not really her thing, even though she says she doesn’t mind. He puts his hand on her knee, all gentle and smooth, hoping she won’t take it like he’s coming onto her right away. He likes to ease into these things -- they both do. It’s almost like a private language between them, a look here or a touch there, so easy to read after all this time, and she reaches down to run soft fingers over his knuckles, a clear _yes._

They’re only about three deaths into the movie before Maddie’s sliding her thigh over Tommy’s lap and pressing up tight against him, nuzzling his throat with her nose and soft, glossy lips. Her breath feels warm, blowing across his skin, but it makes the rest of his body feel cold, and he shivers, bringing one arm around her back to pull her more fully into his lap. She’s even smaller than he is, and he can lift her easily, like one of her ballet partners throwing her high into the air, but she feels fragile next to him, and he’s always afraid of being too clumsy with her, too unbalanced. Breaking her.

But Maddie doesn’t hesitate, just leans in to kiss him again, pressing the length of her body to his, and he groans at the brush of her breasts against his chest. Her lip gloss tastes like strawberries, and Tommy licks it off his teeth when she pauses for breath, watching her chest rise and fall, the stretch of her thin sweater. He brings his hands up to touch her through the soft knit, feeling himself starting to get hard as her nipples rise to points under his palms.

Her hips find an easy rhythm, and his fingers slide down to her waist, squeezing in tight. She’s so tiny he can almost wrap his hands all the way around, and he loves how small she is, but he can’t help but feel like they don’t quite match, like he should be bigger for her, stronger. He shifts one hand to the base of her spine, his fingers stretching down to her ass, and pulls her down against him as he thrusts his hips up. His dick grinds against the inside of her thigh, and she feels so warm even through Tommy’s thick jeans. She must be wet by now, and he wants to feel it, wonders if she’ll drag him to the bedroom or if she’ll ride him right here on the couch with screams echoing out from the TV in the background.

His attention is diverted when his pocket starts to vibrate, right in the crease of his thigh. He startles and tries to hide it, shifting his weight so his phone isn’t pressing against Maddie, and tries to fish it out without her noticing. He thinks his tongue is doing a pretty good job of distracting her, so he lets her take control of the kiss while he swipes the phone on over her shoulder, squinting to read through the glare.

The name on the display makes his breath hitch, just for a split-second, and he realizes he’s been waiting for this text all day long. Longer. Ever since the news hit.

 _i need a drink, u busy?_

He thumbs a response one-handed, clumsy and misspelled, but Adam will understand. Adam always understands him. Adam’s reply comes less than a minute later.

 _can i pick u up? i can be there in a few min._

“Tommy, who are you texting?” Maddie murmurs, breathing hot against the hollow of his throat. Tommy flinches, startled.

“Nobody. Adam. Sorry.”

Maddie sits up and gives him a disappointed look. “Please don’t lie to me, Tommy. I’ve had enough of that, okay? Just tell me the truth.”

Tommy feels his face go stony, and his hand falls away from her body. “Adam just texted me. He wants to hang out. It’s just Adam.”

“You don’t have to lie, Tommy. If we’re having problems, just tell me and we can fix them.”

“We’re not having problems! I love you. I’m not cheating on you. It’s just Adam, I swear.”

Maddie climbs off his lap, then, and Tommy deflates. “Stop fucking _lying_!” she snaps, and Tommy feels her words like a slap to his face. She never swears, not unless she’s totally furious. “I know you’ve been with Lindsey. I know it. Don’t try and--I’m not an idiot. Is that her? Are you going to see her?”

He stands up and turns the phone back on, turns it around so she can see. “Maddie, just look. Look!”

She looks at the phone. Then she looks at Tommy. “You just agreed to go out with Adam while we were... What is wrong with you, Tommy? What is even going on in your head?”

“Nothing!” Tommy insists, then realizes what he said. “I mean... I didn’t mean to. He just needs me right now. He’s like, my best friend. His boyfriend just dumped him...what do you want me to do?”

She huffs and repeats, “Boyfriend,” and her tone makes Tommy feel like he’s covered in something dirty, like he wants to go brush his teeth and get her taste out of his mouth.

He grits his teeth. “It’s just Adam. It’s not like anything’s going to happen with us. And I’m not going to see Lindsey anymore, okay? I promise. I won’t.”

“Well, at least I know you don’t want to fuck him,” she mutters under her breath. She stalks around the coffee table and flings her sweater off over her head. She looks so much more powerful standing across from Tommy in her tank top, with the strong lines of her biceps showing as she crosses her arms. Tommy runs his teeth over his lower lip and starts to feel awkward, standing there with his phone still clutched in his hand.

“You’re going drinking with him?” she asks, and Tommy’s eyes cut to the plastic cup on the table before he can stop them. Maddie’s still staring at him when he looks back. “Yeah, don’t think I can’t taste it on you, Tommy. Are you even fit to drive?”

“He’s picking me up,” Tommy murmurs.

“Why do you have to meet at a bar, anyway?”

“He just... wants to.” Tommy rubs a hand over his eyes, suddenly weary. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it. He needs me right now.”

“And you always fucking go to him, don’t you? You’re like his pet. You always come when he calls.”

Tommy’s phone vibrates again and he automatically swipes his thumb across the screen to unlock it. Maddie glares at him. Tommy resists looking at the text, just stares back at her, until he hears a car horn honking from the street.

Maddie sighs and reaches up to untie her hair, shaking it out and running her fingers through it. She probably has a headache. Sometimes Tommy lies in bed with her for hours, just listening to music and rubbing her neck and stroking his fingers across her skull. She probably doesn’t want him to touch her right now.

“Just...please don’t drive home. Get a cab or something,” she says, resignation in her voice. “And don’t kiss me when you get back. I hate the taste of whiskey.”

Tommy doesn’t look at her as he heads to the door and pockets his keys and his wallet. Just before he leaves, he calls back to her, “I’m sorry. I’m gonna be better. I really will.” He leaves before she has a chance to argue.

Adam’s waiting at the curb, the car running, and Tommy slides quickly into the passenger seat and takes a deep breath. Adam revs the engine a couple times, which Tommy thinks is supposed to impress people, but to him it just sounds growly and loud. He looks over at Adam, and even in the twilight he can see the bags under Adam’s eyes, the determined set of his jaw. Tommy reaches over and touches Adam’s hand where he’s clutching the gear shift and Adam seems to relax, just a little bit. It’s enough. Tommy smiles at him and Adam returns it.

“Is Maddie home?” Tommy nods. “Sorry. Didn’t meant to interrupt your evening, I just--”

“Oh, whatever,” Tommy interrupts smoothly. “I’d rather hang out with you right now.”

“Are you sure? I just don’t think I can be alone tonight. The past couple days have been... bad. It was really awful, Tommy.”

Tommy squeezes Adam’s hand. “So let’s go get fucked up.”

At that, Adam grins, sharp and bright. “Fuck yeah. Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

Tommy laughs, ignoring the tight, happy feeling twisting in his gut. “Never tired of hearing it!”

Adam’s fingers flex on the steering wheel, and he turns to face front, staring at the road like he wants to attack it. Tommy feels a sudden thrill, and he can’t help smiling. His guilt at leaving Maddie behind is fading fast, but just as they peel out and away from the curb, he hears her voice in his head again, something she’d said that had caught and stuck in his memory like a burr.

 _At least I know you don’t want to fuck him._

Adam’s leather-clad thigh is right there, three inches to his left. Tommy carefully keeps his hands in his own lap and stares at them the whole way to the bar. He’s never needed a drink so badly in his life.

*

Tommy’s on his second rum and coke when Adam finally starts talking about the brand-new ex, just starting to feel the blur of alcohol in his brain. He gestures for the bartender to bring Adam another mojito and turns to watch Adam as he speaks.

“I just...I keep thinking I should have _known,_ you know? I mean, I did know. Some part of me did, at least. He was never really into it. The relationship part. Not the sex part. That part was fucking fantastic.”

Tommy bites his lip and turns away to take a deep drink. He knows the feeling, except...he thinks he’s maybe been on the other side of it a time or two. Maddie pops into his head again, and he pushes her away before she can ruin his buzz. Sometimes he gets the creeping feeling that he’s a really shitty boyfriend, and that he’s not giving his best to his relationship. Not even the sex. Maybe he’s just not meant to be a relationship guy.

Adam sighs, pulling Tommy’s attention back to the present, and god, he looks so _sad_ , like someone’s kicked his puppy, or told him Halloween was cancelled. Tommy leans over until their shoulders touch.

“Good thing that asshole’s not here -- I’d punch his teeth out. See how many magazine covers he gets then!” he says, only half teasing. People shouldn’t be allowed to hurt Adam like this. There should be a _law._

“Yeah, well, it’s over now. Maybe it’s for the best, you know? At least now I don’t have to worry about him. Did I tell you he slept with someone else while he was in Paris? God, it was always this little nagging thing in the back of my mind, and now... I guess now it doesn’t matter. It’s kind of a relief,” Adam says, swirling his the ice cubes in his glass. After a long moment of staring down into it, he takes a sip, and then another, and then drains the whole thing.

“It’s still not cool,” Tommy mutters. He follows Adam’s lead and finishes his own drink, even though he’s two or three drinks ahead of Adam, and wonders if Adam can tell. He’s pretty good at hiding it these days, especially if he doesn’t have to talk too much, and leaning against both Adam and the nice, sturdy bar is doing wonders to keep him from listing to the side.

“So I guess I’m back to ‘single and mingling.’ Fuck, I hate answering those questions. But it’s like Chad’s always saying, people wanna know. Personal shit sells.”

“But...” Tommy hesitates, trying to find words for his thoughts. “Isn’t that like exploiting yourself or something? I don’t think I could do that. It’s so, like... _personal_. You know?”

Adam shrugs. “Part of the job. I mean, even on fucking _Idol_ , everyone’s got their sob story. It’s what gets people interested.”

Tommy groans. “Why can’t it ever just be about the music? It’s like it doesn’t even matter sometimes. Everything’s about who you fuck and how you look. Fucking sucks.”

Adam nods miserably and rubs his forehead. Tommy stares at the little smudge of moisture left over from his fingers. It looks funny on Adam’s face, like sweat, or like... like he’s wet. Tommy has a vivid flash of Adam right after a shower, all soft skin and dripping hair. He blinks hard and shakes his head, trying to clear the image.

“You all right?” Adam asks.

“Fine, yeah. Cool.”

“Because we can go if you want. I mean, I don’t want to keep you if you’re getting tired...”

“No, no. I wanna stay. I want to stay with you. I’m commiserating, right?”

Adam laughs mirthlessly. “What do you have to commiserate about?”

Tommy’s face heats and he ducks his head low, hunching up his shoulders to hide it. “I don’t fucking know, man.”

“Trouble in paradise? Join the fucking club. I don’t even have paradise anymore.”

That’s pretty self-pitying even for Adam, even for Adam in a _mood_ , and Tommy lets himself fall against Adam’s arm so he can look up and bat his eyelashes. Adam always smiles when he does that. This time, though, Tommy falls a little bit too far and his head hits Adam’s chin, and Adam has to grab him to keep him off the floor.

“Maybe we should get out of here, baby,” he murmurs against Tommy’s hair. “Don’t wanna make a scene. We’re supposed to be playing me up to the paps, right? Not looking like drunk assholes.”

“I don’t wanna go home,” Tommy mumbles. “You’re not fucked up yet. You said we should get fucked up.”

Adam squeezes him in a little half-hug and says, “What about my place? I have this awesome rum that...well, fucking _Jake_ brought it back from Jamaica, and I really don’t want any of his shit in the house any more, but it’d be a shame to throw it away. Help me drink it?”

Tommy rubs his face into Adam’s shoulder, pausing a moment before he speaks. He doesn’t want Adam to move his arm yet; he’s way too comfortable tucked here against Adam’s side to even think about getting up and walking. Finally, he nods and says, “I like rum.”

Adam laughs again and says, “You like _everything._ ”

Tommy tries to think of a clever response to that, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Well... yeah. It’s like... just... you know. Good.” He smushes his face against Adam’s arm again, embarrassed. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

Adam pulls a couple crisp bills out of his wallet and leaves them on the bar. Then he stands up and offers a hand to Tommy, pulling him up off his bar stool and onto unsteady feet. Outside, they’re met with the blinding flashbulbs of the paparazzi, but Adam doesn’t stop to acknowledge them. He ushers Tommy straight through the crowd and pushes him into the passenger side of his car before walking around to get to the driver’s seat. Tommy leans back and lets his head loll against the window. He wonders if the cameras can see him through the tinted glass.

Suddenly, the car is filled with loud music, something full of pulsing bass and whining sirens, and he flops his head around against the seat to see Adam with his eyes closed, breathing the music in, letting it steady him. One of those little tricks he’s learned since his days of jumping paps on the beach, Tommy thinks, and he dissolves into laughter at the memory. He had no fucking shame that day. Neither of them did, really. Tommy almost wishes he could feel like that again.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and as they drive away, he turns back to flip the flashbulbs a deliberate double bird, not caring if they can see it or not. It’s the thought that counts, and _Adam_ can see it, laughing as he reaches over to slap Tommy’s hands back down.

“Be good! I’m trying to repair my image, here!” Adam scolds, but he sounds too amused to really mean it, his voice lighter and higher than Tommy’s heard it all night. He behaves himself the rest of the drive back to Adam’s, nodding along with the radio and listening to Adam half-sing the songs and wishing every night could be like this one.

By the time they reach Adam’s house, Tommy’s buzz has faded a little, and he’s mostly feeling mellow and calm. Adam parks the car up close to the front door, and he comes around to open Tommy’s door for him and help him out of the car. Tommy shoves his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet, a little nervous. He hasn’t been to Adam’s new house very often, and it’s a little bit intimidating, huge and clean and hidden behind a big iron gate. It reminds him of just how famous Adam really is now.

Adam just smiles and rests a hand on the small of Tommy’s back, warm even through his jacket, guiding him up toward the front door. Tommy leans against Adam, just a little, just to prove a point to himself.

“Nothing’s changed,” he says under his breath as Adam lets them into the house.

“Hmm?” Adam asks, raising an eyebrow. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing. I’m thirsty. Let’s get some drinks,” Tommy replies brightly, leaving Adam’s gentle touch and heading for the kitchen. He opens the fridge and digs around until he finds a couple cans of diet Coke, way in the back, and when he turns around again Adam’s got a mostly-full glass bottle in his hands. Tommy grins. “Perfect.”

He mixes with the ease of long practice, and if he goes a little heavy on the rum, well...Adam just got dumped. If there was ever a time for a strong drink, it’s now.

He watches as Adam takes a sip, the pink of his lips against the smoothness of the glass, and a dozen sense memories assault him at once, summer kisses that tasted like salt and sweat and heat, that left glitter behind.

Adam purses his lips for a second. “Whoa,” he says, then laughs. “You trying to get me drunk, Tommy Joe?”

“Sorry, I just--”

“I guess I was a few drinks behind you anyway,” Adam continues, as if Tommy hadn’t said anything. “Come on, let’s go out back. It’s too nice to stay inside tonight.”

Adam’s view is amazing, especially at night, and Tommy can’t take his eyes away from the lights of the city as they settle into the soft cushions of Adam’s deck furniture. Adam sits in an upright chair, while Tommy stretches out, trying to take up as much of the lounge chair as he can. They drink in silence for a little while, just enjoying the night and the coolness and the relative quiet.

When Tommy glances over at Adam again, though, his mouth is turned down at the corners, and his eyes are vague, lost in thought. Adam’s always doing that, always thinking too much, and Tommy says the first thing he can think of to distract him.

“Remember that one time on that first tour, when we got drunk in that hot tub?”

It startles a laugh out of Adam, and Tommy flushes with pride. “I’m not going swimming with you tonight. This pool is fucking freezing.”

“What, you wussing out on me, Lambert?”

Adam kicks Tommy’s chair, nudging it a few inches. “I should just dump you in, clothes and all.”

Tommy grins and stretches his arms wide, sloshing a bit of his drink onto his knuckles. He licks it off. “You wouldn’t.”

“Sure I would. I’d get wet Tommy out of it. Fuck yeah, I would.” Tommy watches him take a long sip, his throat working as he swallows, and Tommy’s smile softens. “You’d come out looking like a drowned kitten.” He pauses, sighing, then one of Adam’s hands goes to his head, brushing back roughly through his hair. “I don’t even remember the name of the guy I was with that night.”

He sounds regretful, and Tommy bites his lip. “It was tour, man. It’s different. I don’t remember half the chicks I...” He doesn’t feel like finishing the sentence, so he just trails off into silence again.

“God, I can’t believe the next one starts so soon. What, three months until rehearsals? And what then, I’m supposed to go back to fucking _fanboys_?”

Tommy doesn’t even think, just says what’s been at the tip of his tongue all night. Longer. “You’re not...you can have anyone you want, Adam. You can do better than fanboys.”

“Apparently I can’t,” Adam mutters bitterly. “At least they wanted to be there, you know?”

“Did Jake...” Tommy trails off again, wondering for a second if he’s prying. “I mean, did he not like it? The... you know. Sex?”

Adam sighs noisily and turns sideways in his chair to face Tommy, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s not what I meant. He just didn’t want to be with _me_.” When Adam raises his head, Tommy sees a streak of wetness on his cheek. His stomach twists into a tight knot.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, setting his drink on the ground with a dull thunk. He reaches for Adam with both hands. “Adam, come on. Come here.”

Adam leaves his own drink on the arm of his chair and comes to fall next to Tommy in a graceless slump, his head down and his breath shaking, and Tommy’s there in a second, wrapping himself around Adam as tight as he can.

Adam mutters something too softly for Tommy to hear, and Tommy has to ask him to say it again. He takes a deep breath and gives it another try. “You don’t have to do this. Be here. I’m totally depressing right now.”

“Actually, I really kind of do have to be here. I mean, I _want_ to be. That first tour...don’t you remember? All the shit I went through that summer, with...with my dad and everything. You were there for me every fucking night.”

Adam sniffs and wipes roughly at his eyes. “Just returning the favor then, huh?”

Tommy sits up and waits until Adam turns to look at him, and he gives Adam his most serious stare. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be right now than here. With you.”

Adam’s face kind of crumples, and he’s crying again, and he grabs onto Tommy and pulls him back down and close. “I’ve fuckin’ missed you, Tommy.” His face is wet against Tommy’s cheek, and his arms are wrapped around Tommy’s body so tight it almost hurts. Tommy lets his hands come up and fist in Adam’s hair, pulling him in, and it feels good to have something to hang on to, something tangible, especially when Adam tilts his head and closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to Tommy’s.

Tommy’s frozen in place, his hands tightening in Adam’s hair, and then Adam’s fingers crawl up to his throat, and it’s so familiar that Tommy just sighs and relaxes into the touch. Adam presses his thumb to Tommy’s jaw, angling him exactly right and urging Tommy to open his mouth for Adam’s tongue.

It’s different than when it was for show, desperate and heated and _better_ now, and Tommy sits up straighter, pushing back against Adam’s lips hard enough to bruise. He wants this, has wanted it, for so long now he can’t even remember when he _didn’t_. He knows he won’t be able to say it, even now, rum-drunk in the twilight, and every single thought goes out of his head except one: _show him._

Tommy lets his fingers relax and slide through Adam’s hair, bringing them down to cup the back of his neck. Adam pulls back a few inches, just enough to put some space between their bodies, and somehow twists his hips so that Tommy is beneath him and Adam’s arms are braced on either side of Tommy’s head. Adam’s body is flush against his, all the way down, and Tommy can feel _everything_ , his chest rising and falling as he breathes, the way their legs tangle together, and, oh god, how hard Adam is, grinding down against him in a smooth, sinuous rhythm, driving everything higher, harder.

“Oh...” Tommy doesn’t realize he’s moaning until Adam breaks the kiss and stares down at him, eyes glittering in the darkness.

“Thought about this, god, so many times, Tommy, and I never...”

“What, never what?” Tommy asks, panting. He doesn’t even know how he’s still managing to talk -- it feels like he’s burning, like his skin is lighting up everywhere Adam’s touching him.

“Never thought you’d let me,” Adam growls. “Fuck, Tommy, I wanna suck you off, I wanna see your fucking cock.”

“Yeah, yes, please, yeah.” No way in hell is Tommy turning that down. He grabs for Adam’s hair again, then his thick biceps, but Adam easily evades his grasp and shuffles down on the lounge chair until he’s perched at the very end, between Tommy’s legs. The shadows that cling to Adam’s face make his smile look sharp and ghoulish, and Tommy bites his lip hard to keep from moaning again. Adam’s not even touching him yet.

Adam stretches over him like a cat, all jutting shoulder blades and predatory eyes, and Tommy finally has to stop watching. He already feels like he’s about to come. Adam lays his palm over Tommy’s dick, cupping him through his pants and pressing his thumb right along the head, and Tommy didn’t think his pants were that tight, that Adam would know exactly how to touch him, but maybe Adam has some kind of sixth sense. A dick sense. He can’t stop himself from laughing out loud, and Adam cuts his eyes up to give him a questioning look.

“Drunk. Happy. _Drunk,_ ” Tommy says, and thrusts his hips up toward Adam’s hands. “C’mon, Adam, please, I can’t...I want...”

“What do you want, baby?” Adam asks, still staring hotly up at Tommy’s face, still stroking him through his pants, slow and deliberate.

“You’re gonna make me come if you...” Tommy gasps. “Please, I want... Just...”

“Fuck, yeah, come on,” Adam murmurs breathlessly. “Let me see you, baby. I want to see your face.”

Adam nudges Tommy’s knees a little wider, pushing them up so his feet are firmly planted on the cushion, and slides one hand beneath Tommy’s thigh. He doesn’t lift Tommy up, but Tommy can feel the intent there. He thrusts his hips up in anticipation, and Adam shifts his knees under Tommy’s thighs to prop him up. His hand dips down and cups Tommy’s balls firmly, his touch almost too hard, too rough, but it makes bright spots of light flash behind Tommy’s eyelids. He tosses his head to the side and stares at the bright windows of the house, and that burns his eyes too. He finally just squeezes them shut and grabs the edge of the cushion with both fists. He doesn’t dare breathe. It feels like the moment’s on a knife-edge, fragile, and Tommy desperately doesn’t want to shatter it.

“Stop, baby, stop holding back. I wanna see you come,” Adam purrs, his voice floating down through the thick haze of pleasure clouding Tommy’s head, the harsh sound of his own gasping breath. “Come for me, Tommy. Let me see you.”

Tommy throws his head back, a loud moan catching hard in his throat, and obeys, coming hot and wet and messy in his jeans, and Adam keeps pushing and guiding and holding him until the tension bleeds from Tommy’s limbs and he falls flat to the chair, his thighs draped over Adam’s lap and one arm hanging off the side of the cushion.

“That’s good,” Adam murmurs. He pets Tommy’s thighs. “That’s good, Tommy.”

Tommy’s tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. He swallows and tries to form a sentence, but it doesn’t quite work. “That... I didn’t... What about...”

Adam looms up over Tommy and leans down to murmur in his ear. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m still gonna get my mouth on your pretty little cock. Didn’t want it to be over too fast.”

And Tommy thinks he should probably be offended by “little,” but he can’t quite muster the energy, blissed-out and floating and reaching clumsily for Adam’s face, pulling him down into a kiss.

Adam concedes for a moment, thrusting his tongue into Tommy’s mouth and stealing his breath away, but then he sits up and starts working at Tommy’s fly, dragging the zipper apart and yanking the clingy denim down Tommy’s thighs. Tommy lets himself sprawl, boneless as Adam struggles to get the jeans pulled down to his ankles.

“Fucking shoes,” Adam mutters. Tommy looks down at the pants all scrunched up over his boots and starts laughing. Adam throws him a look. “Fuck you too,” he says.

“Yes please,” Tommy replies, not thinking. In the next instant, his eyes go wide and he has to resist the urge to cover his mouth with both hands, because all of a sudden it’s not a joke any more, not a fantasy. That is Adam staring down at him like a tiger with a slab of meat. That, right there, is _definitely_ Adam’s cock, hard and straining against his zipper. Tommy blushes hot and licks his lips.

“Would you let me?” Adam asks, quiet and dead serious.

Tommy licks his lips again, breathes, and nods, unable to force the words out of his mouth. Adam yanks on his legs, not playing or drawing it out anymore, pulling his shoes and pants off and dropping them to the ground, and Tommy slides a few inches down the lounge chair. Towards Adam, who climbs right off the chair and pulls Tommy toward him again, so his legs are hanging off the end.

“You gotta say it, baby.” He sinks to his knees on the ground and arranges Tommy’s legs around him, with one hooked over his shoulder. “Take off your shirt.”

The night air is cool on all Tommy’s newly-exposed skin, and he feels very _aware_ of parts he usually doesn’t give much thought to. The backs of his knees. The creases of his thighs. His ass, _fuck,_ his ass, and Adam’s face right there, looking up at him over the whole stretched-out line of his body. Adam doesn’t move, and Tommy shakes his head, trying to clear the post-orgasmic haze and the nerves, and reaches up to strip his shirt off over his head in one quick motion.

Adam palms Tommy’s soft, wet cock and raises an eyebrow. “Think about it.”

“About what?” Tommy asks dazedly.

“You know what.”

And Tommy does. He thinks about Adam unzipping his pants, crawling over him and pushing Tommy’s legs up to his chest, sliding his wet dick down along the crease of Tommy’s ass, the stretch and pressure and pain, maybe, of Adam pushing in. His cock is definitely bigger than one or two of Tommy’s fingers, and he’s never really considered how big Adam is before now, except maybe in a vague, theoretical porn-like way when he’s just about to bring himself off, one hand on his cock and fingers in his ass and brain remembering Adam’s heat, Adam grabbing his hair and kissing him and towering over him, big in every way.

Adam drags his fingers through the mess of come left on Tommy’s stomach, slicking them until they’re shining. Then he slides his hand down and rubs over Tommy’s asshole with two fingers, then his thumb, all gentle and careful even though he’s looking at Tommy like he wants to devour him whole. Adam’s tongue pokes out between his lips, wetting them, and his gaze drops to Tommy’s ass like he just can’t help it. Heat rushes through Tommy’s body in quick contrast to the cool night air. He tells himself not to be embarrassed about Adam looking at his ass. This is what he wanted. _Wants_.

“Have you done this before?” Adam asks. He pushes one finger in, just the very tip, then takes it away. Tommy exhales sharply through his nose. “Tommy, answer me,” he commands, then spits on his fingers and brings them back to Tommy’s ass. He pushes in one finger again, twists it, then takes it back. “Have you fingered yourself before? Have you played with your ass? Does it get you off?”

Tommy squirms and spreads his legs further, Adam’s teasing pushing him way past the edge of embarrassment and right into desperate need. He’s just come and it doesn’t even seem to _matter_ , and now Adam isn’t even touching him, the bastard, just waiting again. Fuck.

He groans and shuts his eyes. “Yes, I did, I have, I just--I like it. Please, I want--”

When Adam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t touch him again, Tommy opens his eyes to see Adam grinning at him, his lips stretched wide and his teeth glinting white in the half-light. He looks like a predator, about to pounce on his prey. Tommy shudders, and Adam keeps him pinned under his gaze as he leans down and takes Tommy’s cock into his mouth.

It’s too soon, _way_ too soon--Tommy’s not even hard--and he can’t hold back a cry, oversensitive almost to the point of pain, even though Adam’s mouth is hot and wet and good. His body can’t figure out what it wants, simultaneously trying to thrust up into Adam’s mouth and pull away, and Adam’s hands come to rest on his hips, holding him down for it. Every touch gets translated to pain, even though he _knows_ Adam’s lips are soft and his fingers are gentle. Adam just keeps licking, keeps up with that gentle pressure, and everything blurs together in Tommy’s head, until _too much_ becomes _not enough_ , and fuck, apparently it isn’t too soon for him to start getting hard again.

With one hand splayed around Tommy’s cock, holding him steady while Adam slowly bobs his head, Adam drags the other down from Tommy’s hip, scratching lightly with his fingernails across Tommy’s thigh and down to his ass. Tommy clues into what’s coming just a moment before it happens, but he still jerks with surprise when Adam pushes a finger all the way into him and angles it, somehow, stroking him from the inside out--and holy fucking _fuck_ , it’s never felt like _that_ before.

Tommy bites his lip hard and writhes on the chair, torn between grinding down on Adam’s finger and pushing up into his mouth, and a high moan escapes him, wrenched from his throat. “Ohhh, fuck. Adam. _Adam_.” He feels like he’s about to come again, already, too soon. He wonders if he _can_ , what it will feel like if he does. If Adam will let him rest, then, or if he’ll just keep going, licking and sucking and looking at him with those _eyes_ for as long as it takes to pull everything Tommy’s got out of him.

“Tommy.”

Jesus, how can Adam sound so calm? “Mother _fucker_ , what?” Tommy groans, and he would be ready to strangle Adam right now if he didn’t think it would interfere with the most intense blowjob he’s ever had.

“You can come now or you can come on my cock. Your choice.”

“Fucking what the fuck? I want to--”

“You have to choose, Tommy,” Adam cuts in with a smug, evil grin.

Tommy pounds a fist on the cushion weakly. “I can’t, don’t make me choose, I can’t, I need...”

Adam opens his mouth and turns to the side, scrapes his teeth along the inside of Tommy’s thigh, leaving faint red marks. He kisses them, soothing, then flashes Tommy a grin. “I know you need it, baby. But tell me, do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” Tommy replies immediately.

“Do you want to come while I’m fucking you? I can do it, Tommy. I can get you there, all stretched out and open around my dick, so fucking full and needy. Or...do you want to come now? Want me to take my time with you, opening you up and fucking you so long and slow you can’t even remember what came before? You have to tell me...” Adam trails off and presses his face in against Tommy’s skin, and Tommy’s about to answer when all of a sudden Adam’s pulling him apart and _licking_ , one long hard swipe of his tongue right over Tommy’s asshole, and he’s going to come _right the fuck now_ if Adam does that one more time.

“Oh, fuck, stop,” Tommy cries. “No, I want you to fuck me, please, I want to wait. I need you in me, Adam, please. I can’t wait, I need you.”

Adam pushes Tommy’s legs off his shoulders and Tommy slides a bit further off the chair as Adam drops him, sprawled halfway on the ground now and so high on the rush in his blood he can’t even bring himself to move. He watches Adam strip, his eyes following every new sliver of exposed skin until Adam’s shirt is all the way unbuttoned and hanging off one arm, and his jeans are pooled around his ankles. Adam steps out of them, kicks all his clothes into a pile, and reaches down for Tommy, grasping his arms firmly and pulling him back up onto the chair, tossing him towards the other end so he can stretch out all the way.

Tommy lands with a muffled whump on the soft cushion and stares up at Adam, breathless and hard and now blushing at how easily Adam can move him around. His eyes slip down Adam’s bare, freckled chest to the waistband of his briefs, and he’s almost scared to look further. He can already see Adam’s cock outlined through the dark material, and Adam notices him watching, reaches down to palm himself through the cotton, pulling it tight.

“That’s right, that’s what you fucking need, isn’t it, baby? Come on, show me how much you want it--get up here and take it out for me.”

Tommy moves without thinking, rolling up onto his knees and nearly doing a faceplant right off the edge in his rush to crawl to the end of the chair. He sits there, with his feet tangled under him, and stares up at Adam’s face. Adam’s watching him, and he looks dark. Dark everywhere. Dark hair framing his face, dark eyes narrowed at Tommy. Dark smile. Confident. Confident that Tommy will do what he asks. For a quick second, the image of Adam as he’d been just a span of minutes ago flashes through Tommy’s head, Adam slumped and crying, and a surge of warm pride goes through him. He did that, brought Adam back to himself, if only just for tonight, and he’s smiling when he reaches up and hooks his fingers in Adam’s briefs, pulls them down over his hips.

Adam’s cock spills out in Tommy’s hands and he’s shocked, for a long moment, at how different Adam is to himself. How _big_. He’s hard, and so, so blood-hot, and wet where his precome has smeared down past the head. Tommy tentatively wraps his fist around Adam, a little scared now, but his senses are overwhelming him, the sight and the feel and the smell of Adam, and lust punches him in the gut. He leans forward before even thinking it through and sucks a kiss to the head, letting Adam’s taste wet his lips. He needs to _know_.

At that, Adam groans, long and loud and low, reaching down to grab Tommy’s hair and pull, wrenching him back. The spike of pain runs down his spine and right into his cock, driving his need higher, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but wait for Adam to put Tommy wherever he wants him to go.

Adam doesn’t make him wait. He pulls harder, and Tommy lets him, lets himself fall back onto the cushions again as Adam follows him down. Adam stretches out on top of Tommy, pressing against him, so much skin sliding against skin. Tommy arches his back, exposing his throat for Adam to kiss, and Adam does, but he follows it with his teeth, and that’s almost better, because it distracts Tommy from the feel of Adam’s cock grinding into his thigh. Adam shoves a hand beneath Tommy--beneath the cushion of the chair, and pulls out a little travel bottle of lube and a folded strip of foil-wrapped condoms.

Tommy closes his eyes and waits, forces himself to keep breathing. He’s tempted to watch Adam get himself ready, because now that’s he’s seen it, _tasted_ it, Adam’s cock is sort of fascinating, big and dark and hard and so very _not_ Tommy’s. But it’s too much, too fast, and instead he focuses on the sound of tearing foil, the clicking cap of the lube bottle, the obscene sound of Adam stroking himself wet.

After a moment, Adam’s hands come back to Tommy, spreading his legs and leaving slick traces of lube on his skin. Tommy curls his body up at Adam’s urging, wraps his legs around Adam’s torso, and reaches for the sides of the chair with both hands, needing something to hold onto. Adam’s too far above him to kiss, now, so Tommy licks his lips and stares up at him instead, at the intense concentration on Adam’s face. Adam’s tongue darts out, a flash of pink against his lips, and he looks down between them. Tommy doesn’t follow Adam’s gaze. He can’t make himself look, as much as he desperately wants to see Adam’s cock pushing into him.

Suddenly, Tommy feels Adam against his ass, blunt and thick and way too much. Tommy gasps, absolutely certain that it’s not going to work, Adam’s not going to fit, but Adam grabs Tommy’s hip with one hand and pushes past that resistance, slow and steady.

Then Adam looks at him again, and the intense confidence melts into something both softer and more primal, and Tommy _can’t_ , has to shut his eyes against the nameless, overwhelming feeling building in his chest.

But Adam’s right there, his voice soft and insistent. “No, baby, look at me. Let me see you. Come on...”

He reaches up and pets Tommy’s forehead gently until he opens his eyes again, letting Adam’s gaze burn into him as he holds his breath, waiting, waiting. Adam smiles and braces himself on his knees and _thrusts_ , and oh fuck, it _hurts_. Tommy wants to cry out, almost can’t hold it back, almost tells Adam to stop, that it’s too much, that he can’t take it after all.

It’s the look on Adam’s face that stops him. He’s never used the word ‘rapture’ before in anything but a snarky jab at religion, but there’s no better way to describe the look on Adam’s face. He understands it now. He blinks back the tears before they can escape, and he opens his mouth wide and throws his head back and moans, because there’s nothing else he _can_ do.

Adam settles into a rhythm of deep, slow strokes, and Tommy can feel _everything_ , every inch of Adam inside him, the grounding sensation of Adam’s hands on him, the flex and release of Adam’s muscles with every thrust. It’s not even close to the way Tommy fucks, quick and desperate and always rushing toward the finish--it feels like Adam could do this for hours, all night if he felt like it.

Tommy gets lost in the constant sensation, lost in Adam’s thrusts, and he can’t make himself let go of the cushion even though his cock is still so fucking hard, begging for attention, bouncing against his stomach in time with Adam’s rhythm. He clenches his fists tight and closes his eyes, and then he feels Adam’s hand on his cheek, the only bit of stillness in their entire bodies.

Adam’s thumb rubs at the corner of Tommy’s eye and it’s wet--those tears seem to have escaped after all--then underneath, probably smearing some of Tommy’s eyeliner, and he leans close enough for Tommy to feel his breath against his face when he whispers, “Baby, look at me. I need to see that you’re here, with me. Look at me.”

Tommy obediently opens his eyes and Adam’s face is blurry above him, so close now but still not close enough. Adam slides his hand down and pushes his thumb to Tommy’s lips, shoving it inside Tommy’s mouth to stroke his tongue, and Tommy closes his lips around Adam and sucks hard. There’s a foreign, unfamiliar taste on Adam’s skin, and Tommy realizes belatedly it’s the lube leftover from Adam stroking himself, and with the image of Adam’s cock fresh in Tommy’s mind, he comes, his whole body tensing, squeezing around Adam’s cock deep inside him. It feels like Adam is _forcing_ the orgasm out of him, tearing it out of his body with words and fingers and cock, and Tommy gives himself up to it, to the pleasure and the alcohol and the night.

He’s only vaguely aware of the rest, of the mess he’s made of himself, come streaking all the way up over his chest. Unconsciousness is hovering around the edges of his vision, blurry blackness he recognizes all too well, but he can’t let himself go just yet, wanting desperately to feel Adam finish, be there with him for that moment, see his face.

Adam’s saying something, but Tommy can’t bring himself to decipher the harsh, desperate whispers, focusing instead on the quickening pace of Adam’s hips, the tightening of his fingers. And when Adam finally breaks, Tommy knows by his face, by the open ring of his mouth and the tensing of his brow, the gasping, hitching breath he takes as his whole body goes still.

He’s aware of Adam eventually shifting them around, getting rid of the condom, moving his weight off Tommy to let him breathe. Tommy doesn’t try to rearrange his limbs into a more comfortable position; he’s not sure if he even _can_. He stays where Adam puts him, and Adam snuggles up beside him, so it’s pretty great overall, even though he can feel his come drying on his stomach, and the lube is still slippery inside him, and his arm hurts from where Adam’s lying on it. His ass is sore in a very distant way that Tommy can ignore for now, because Adam’s lips are against his cheek and his arm is around Tommy’s waist, and those are much more pleasant things to focus on.

He laughs, not really knowing why, and Adam smiles against his cheek. “What’s funny, baby?”

Tommy burrows his head into Adam and says the first thing that comes into his head. “Good fucking rum.”

Adam laughs back and replies, “Yeah. It really was. Thanks, Tommy.”

Tommy struggles around and frees his trapped arm so he can face Adam. “For what?”

“For tonight,” Adam says, smiling. He kisses Tommy’s nose, almost playful, and Tommy’s stomach twists. He doesn’t ask what Adam means--the drinks, maybe, or meeting up with him at the bar. Or...the sex. He’s not sure what to think, or how to feel, and he wishes they hadn’t said anything at all. Adam turns onto his back, not looking at Tommy anymore, and Tommy dazedly watches him drift off to sleep.

He stares at Adam’s profile, the slope of his nose and the slackness of his lips, until everything goes blurry and all the lines are swimming before his eyes. Even after he closes them, it seems like forever before he can relax, before the sleepiness of good orgasms and too much alcohol finally takes him.

*

Adam wakes up with a start, feeling damp and cold all over, except for along his side, where another body is pressed close against his own. He looks around, surprised to find himself outside, naked and damp with morning dew, and he reaches over to pet Jake’s hair and shake him awake--but it’s not Jake’s dark hair he sees by his shoulder.

“Shit,” he groans, and pushes himself upright. Tommy flops into the warm spot he leaves vacant, his hair limp and his mouth open, still mostly asleep.

Adam springs up like he’s been bitten, stumbling over his own discarded boots, and rubs at his eyes, staring down at Tommy like he can’t quite believe he’s really there. “Holy _shit._ ”

Without Adam keeping him warm, Tommy starts to shiver, and he sits up, holding his head and blinking blearily at Adam. “Um. Hey,” he says, smacking his tongue in his mouth like he tastes something bad.

Bits and pieces of last night come back to Adam in flashes. Moments. Tommy falling against Adam’s shoulder. Tommy sprawling naked on the lounge chair. Tommy kissing Adam’s cock, _Jesus_.

“Last night...” he starts, then has to wet his lips before they crack open and bleed. He doesn’t want to ask, and when he looks down at Tommy, he finds he doesn’t need to. The evidence is all over him, in the pink marks on Tommy’s thighs and the flaking come dried on his stomach. “Shit, Tommy...”

“What time is it?” Tommy asks blearily. Adam doesn’t know, but it looks pretty early. He shrugs. Tommy shivers again, wrapping his arms around himself, and Adam’s heart clenches.

“We should get inside. You’re freezing.”

Tommy moves wordlessly, reaching for his clothes where they’re laying in a heap on the wet grass, but Adam snatches them out of Tommy’s hands when he tries to pull them on.

“No, Tommy, don’t. Come on. I have a dryer. And a shower.”

“I need to go,” Tommy mumbles.

“I’m not letting you put this shit back on. You’ll freeze to death. Come on. Inside. Let’s go.”

Adam leads Tommy inside, using his damp clothes as bait. He pushes Tommy toward the nearest bathroom--he has to be getting itchy by now--and tosses everything into the dryer, pulling a clean towel off the shelf for Tommy and a pair of jeans for himself. He zips them up and stands uncomfortably outside the bathroom door, not even sure he wants to knock, and it’s _weird_. More and more of last night is coming back to him as he becomes more awake, the easy closeness of it, the trust in Tommy’s eyes as Adam had pushed into him for the first time. Everything looks different now, in the light of the morning, even those memories. Something is nagging at the back of his mind, something important, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. Not yet. His head is pounding and he can’t think straight.

He knocks quietly, and then, before Tommy can answer, pushes the door open just wide enough to slide the towel through. “I, uh...this is for you. While your clothes dry,” he calls through the gap.

He feels Tommy take the towel, and waits for a response, but none comes. Adam listens to the toilet flush and the sink run, and then Tommy opens the door all the way, standing silhouetted by the yellow light with the towel wrapped around his chest and hanging to his knees, arms crossed to hold it up. Adam almost reaches for him, wants to slide his hand over the sharp point of a bony shoulder, but everything about Tommy’s stance is telling him to back off.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Adam says. He turns around, trusting Tommy to follow. The kitchen is through the living room, and Adam pauses on the way, flipping a switch to create bright flames in the mostly-unused fireplace. “Here. Sit. Warm up.”

Tommy looks like he’s going to argue, and Adam has to force himself not to roll his eyes. This isn’t some hookup, some random rebound sex with a nameless guy he’ll never see again. Tommy deserves better than that. “Look, you’re stuck here until your clothes dry, anyway. Might as well be comfortable, right?” he says.

Tommy nods dully and just stands there in front of the fire. Adam waits for him to sit down, but he doesn’t. Adam finally takes him by the arm and leads him to chair closest to the fireplace. Tommy stands in front of it for a long moment, then, at Adam’s raised eyebrow, lowers himself down. Adam watches him carefully, noting both Tommy’s reluctance and the very slow, deliberate way he moves.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” Tommy replies under his breath. He shifts his weight and leans against the armrest, and that’s when it hits Adam.

“You’re hurt,” he realizes. “I hurt you.”

“No!” Tommy says, more forcefully than anything Adam’s heard from him yet. “You didn’t hurt me, I wanted it!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Adam asks. “It’s not supposed to hurt, Tommy--I don’t care what anyone says. It doesn’t have to.”

Tommy shrugs and looks away, back at the flickering flames behind the glass, and something clicks in Adam’s head -- something he should have thought about, should have _realized_ before any of this happened at all. It’s not like he’s ever asked Tommy too specifically about his sex life -- never thought it would matter, much -- but still, he should have known.

“Tommy,” Adam says slowly. “You haven’t done that before, have you?”

“Done what?”

“Don’t play stupid. You haven’t been fucked by a guy before.”

“It was fine,” Tommy says, still not meeting Adam’s eyes. “I...I’m glad it was you. Really, I...wouldn’t have wanted anyone else.”

“You’re glad it was me,” Adam repeats flatly. “Are you fucking serious, Tommy? You don’t think that’s the kind of thing I needed to know? _Beforehand_?”

“Would it have stopped you?”

“It--” Adam has to stop and actually think about that for a second. Would it have stopped him, to know Tommy was a virgin? Would he have cared? Most of what he remembers is hot jealousy, a dozen faces blurring together, pretty, petite girls hanging on Tommy and eventually leaving him. He remembers wanting to erase the memory of every single one of them, fuck Tommy senseless, until he couldn’t remember anything but Adam’s name. He remembers it feeling like...like he’d _won_.

“Would it, Adam? Would you have fucked me if you knew?”

“Yeah,” Adam breathes. “Yeah, I would’ve.”

“So it doesn’t matter.”

“But it _does_ , Tommy!” Adam cries. “It matters. You can’t keep that shit secret.”

Tommy shrugs. “I trusted you.”

“You had no right.”

“No right to trust you?” Tommy gives him an incredulous look. “I _know_ you, Adam.”

“No, not--” He sighs. “No right to lay that responsibility on me. I didn’t want it.”

“You just said you did,” Tommy replies quietly.

“Not last night. I was drunk. _You_ were drunk. It wasn’t... how it should be. That’s not how I do things. It wasn’t _real._ ”

Tommy snorts. “Feels pretty fucking real to me. And you know what? You kissed _me._ So don’t try to pretend like this was all my fault. Asshole.”

“Fuck,” Adam breathes. “I can’t even deal with this right now.” He has to take himself out of the room before he says something else he shouldn’t. He heads for the kitchen and goes directly for the cabinet above the sink and its assortment of prescription bottles. Something for his head, and for the twisting in his stomach, and definitely, _definitely_ something for the unnerving jittery feeling under his skin every time another image from last night pops into his brain. He closes his eyes as he swallows and says a silent thanks to Chad. The guy might be a pain in his ass, but he’s never denied Adam anything he’s asked for, and he doesn’t ask questions. Good fucking manager, when it comes down to it.

He should have known, he thinks, watching the coffee start to drip into the pot and waiting for the artificial calm to kick in. He’s been with virgins before--hell, it hasn’t been so very long since he _was_ one, and the memory’s still as clear as if it had happened yesterday. The half-empty bottle of rum is still sitting out on the counter, and Adam glares at it. Maybe he can’t blame it all on the rum, but it’s at least partially responsible. Fucking Jake. This is really all _his_ fault. Obviously.

He leans over so he can see into the living room and bites his lip. A memory sparks in his head: the two of them on a beach sometime last summer, Tommy hiding under about three towels until nothing but his face was showing. He’s still hiding himself now, he just has fewer towels to do it.

Adam rubs his forehead and listens to the gurgling of the coffeemaker. The drugs and the smell of fresh coffee are already helping, but this headache-- _hangover_ \--is going to be persistent, he can tell. Tommy must be feeling the same. Worse, even. Shit, he must be feeling awful, after everything Adam did to him last night. There’s only about half a cup’s worth of coffee in the carafe so far, but Adam’s patience is thin this morning, and he grabs the pot and pours. He can get a cup for himself later. After an apology.

Tommy’s exactly where Adam left him, still in the same position and everything. He looks up when Adam walks in, but he carefully avoids meeting Adam’s gaze, which makes Adam feel like total shit. Adam offers the coffee and Tommy takes it, but he doesn’t drink.

“I’m sorry,” Adam says. “Last night... shouldn’t have happened. Not the way it did. I never wanted to hurt you, Tommy. I’m just so glad that you’re... here. I’m glad you’re my friend. You’re a really good friend, and I’m sorry I fucked it up.”

Tommy bites his lip and drags his gaze up toward Adam’s face, still not quite meeting his eyes. “So...it really was just the alcohol, I guess?”

“A big part of it, yeah,” Adam says, thinking about everything he would have done differently, better, if he’d been even a little bit more sober.

But Tommy looks _crushed._ “Oh...” he says quietly. “I thought...”

Adam leans in close, rushing to comfort him somehow. “Tommy, I’m sorry. I just... really think this was a mistake. You should’ve told me. I could’ve made it better for you.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy replies, and when he looks up this time, he does look better. “I’m glad I could help, last night. And I’m glad my... first time. I’m glad it was you.”

“Are you really okay?”

“I’m fine. I definitely remember coming at least twice...can’t have been that bad, right?” Tommy flashes a smile, and Adam decides to believe him. After all they’ve been through together, after last night... Tommy wouldn’t lie to him. Not about something this important.

He smiles back, just a little, and blushes. “I hope not. I tend to get a little... _Aries_...when I’m having sex. Especially when I’m drunk. You know, bossy.”

Tommy looks up at him through his lashes. “You, bossy? Never.”

It startles a hoarse laugh out of Adam, and for the first time, he thinks maybe this isn’t a complete disaster after all. “Well, I don’t remember you complaining!”

Tommy looks down at his lap, his smile fading fast. “Yeah.”

“Tommy?”

“It’s just that I’m good at, like, you know, dealing with things.”

“ _Dealing_ with things? Is sex usually something you just put up with? ‘Cause if that’s the case, baby, I think you’re doing it wrong.” The pet name slips out unintentionally, and Adam winces at the look on Tommy’s face when he says it. Fuck. He buries his face in his hands, wondering how he could possibly dig himself a deeper hole. Surely he’ll find a way, if he just keeps talking.

“It’s not something I just put up with,” Tommy says in a low voice. “Last night, that was what _I_ needed, too. Don’t take that away from me.”

“Tommy...” Maybe Adam’s still just hung over, but he’s really not understanding Tommy this morning, even less than usual. And this--he feels like he _really_ wants to understand this. “Why are you acting like this? I don’t--I don’t understand you.”

“Acting like what?” Tommy snaps. “How am I acting? How am I the one that’s being weird, when you’re all...” Tommy waves his hand in a complicated gesture. “Eh.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Do you always give your fucks the third degree in the morning? Because I’d like to skip that part, if it’s okay with you.”

“I’m not trying to--”

“Also the part where you said you didn’t even want to fuck me. Could’ve done without that. I’m just sayin’.”

“Fucking hell, Tommy Joe. What is the matter with you? I’m not trying to be weird about--”

“Well, neither am I!”

Adam pauses. “Jesus fucking Christ, Tommy. You’re like my best friend, and now... Everything is fucked up, and I hate that. I didn’t want that to happen.”

“It’s not my fault,” Tommy says quietly.

“Well it’s not my fault, either.”

“You just...you make it so hard, Adam. All those years of your flirting--how was I supposed to react? All that time... did you ever think about what that was doing to _me_?”

Adam stares, and Tommy stares back, and for a second Adam really doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen next. He kind of feels like he wants to punch Tommy in the face, and another part of him wants to drag Tommy upstairs to his bed and not let him out for at least a week. Tommy’s right about one thing: five years is a long time for foreplay with no release.

“I should go,” Tommy says after a moment. He gives Adam the coffee, untouched, and slowly gets to his feet.

“Your clothes--”

Adam’s interrupted by the buzz of his dryer, and Tommy looks unfathomably relieved. Adam lets him go get his clothes alone.

Tommy comes back, disheveled but dressed, and asks, “Have you seen my cell? I need to call Maddie...”

Only then does Adam remember picking Tommy up last night, interrupting Tommy’s evening with his girlfriend. His _girlfriend._ Mother _fuck._

“Shit, Tommy. I’m sorry. Don’t call her. I can drive you, or...you can borrow one of my cars. Just say...”

“I know how to lie to her, Adam,” Tommy whispers.

Adam’s mouth freezes mid-word, and his stomach rolls sickly, even though he knew, he _knew_ Tommy had done this before. It’s different to watch it happen. To be a _part_ of it, fuck. Adam’s never been the “other woman”, and he always swore to himself he never would be. He closes his mouth and swallows, stealing a glance at Tommy and wondering what about him makes it so easy to just...forget everyone else.

“We got drunk and I slept over,” Tommy says. “She’ll understand.”

“Take my car,” Adam murmurs. “The keys are--”

“The hook by the door, I know. Same as always.”

Tommy leaves without another word. Adam listens to him go out the front door, listens to the car start and back down the driveway. Listens to the deafening silence that comes after. The fire isn’t keeping him warm, and he suddenly can’t bear to drink the coffee Tommy hadn’t even touched.

He goes back to the kitchen to pour it down the sink, and notices his cell blinking manically on the counter. Sighing, he picks it up and glances at the screen. And really, what could possibly have happened in one night to justify fifteen texts and seven missed calls? Sometimes--well, a lot of the time--he really misses Lane.

He sits down at the kitchen table and settles in to listen to Chad’s voice drone on and on about whatever Adam’s supposed to be doing today, completely unable to focus. He wonders how long it’ll be before he can get Tommy out of his head, naked and pleasure-drunk and pliant under his touch. If he ever will. He had one chance with Tommy, and he ruined it.

Worn out, he runs his hands through his hair, and winces when he finds a few strands stiff and glued together with what has to be either lube or come--he can’t even tell. He can’t get into the shower fast enough.

He turns the water as hot as he can stand it and just leans into the spray for a long time, letting the heat get deep into his muscles, finally chasing away the morning’s chill. He can still feel the phantom warmth from Tommy lying against his side like a portable heater, the scratchy-softness of his cheek under Adam’s lips. He has to admit--it had felt good to wake up like that again, with someone so close. Jake was never much of a cuddler.

Adam finds himself thinking about the night before, about all the ways Tommy is different from Jake. There are a lot, but there are similarities too. They’re about the same size, and they feel the same with their legs wrapped around Adam. But Tommy... Tommy had an instinct that Jake never showed; it was like he knew exactly what Adam wanted, and he did it without question. Adam remembers the moment Tommy crawled towards him, naked but shameless, and kissed Adam’s cock. Jake had never done that, never done anything even close to that intimate. And honestly, if someone had asked Adam yesterday if he thought Tommy would ever do something like that, he would have laughed. But Tommy’s not shy in bed like Adam had imagined he would be, the times he’d thought about it, not exactly. He’s something more than that, something...exciting.

Adam’s hand drifts down to his cock, and he pictures Tommy under him, on his knees. Staring up with those gorgeous eyes and eyeliner smeared halfway down his face. That didn’t happen until later, last night, but Adam liked that look on Tommy. He liked the messiness of it. And if he’s really honest with himself, he liked the tears. He remembers those tears so clearly. He remembers touching them, tasting them, licking the salt off Tommy’s cheek. He did that.

He lets himself relive it, stroking himself harder as he imagines what it would have been like if he’d pulled Tommy down further onto his cock instead of pushing him back to fuck him, what it would feel like to come inside the warm, velvety clutch of his throat. If Tommy would choke on it. If he would spit and curse and wipe roughly at the tears in his eyes, not wanting to let Adam see. Jesus _fuck_ , Adam wants to see.

His fingers grasp at the slick tile of the shower wall as he comes, sweet relief, and his moan of pleasure is already turning into one of frustration almost before it’s over. He has three months before he goes on tour with Tommy again, and now...now he’s not just fantasizing. Now he _knows._ He thinks about the easy, comfortable friendship that he’s not sure they’ll ever be able to find again, and wishes, for what he’s sure won’t be the last time, that he could give that knowledge back.

*

Tommy comes home to find Maddie asleep on the sofa, still dressed, her phone clutched in one hand, and for a second he wants to turn around and walk right back out. But honestly, he’s just glad to have made it back in one piece, and anyway, it’s not like he has anywhere else to go. He goes to the couch and sinks down to his knees beside it, so he’s eye-level with Maddie’s sleep-smooth face. She looks so peaceful and kind like this--all the time, really, except Tommy knows what’s coming as soon as she wakes up. He knows how worried she’ll be, how annoyed and angry. He wants to enjoy Maddie like this for just a little longer.

It feels wrong, thinking about Adam when Maddie’s right here, right in front of him, but he can’t get the--fight? Is that what just happened? He can’t get it out of his head. He thinks back over what he can remember through the pounding headache and overwhelming tiredness, trying to make some sense of it, but in the end, he’s just as confused as when he started.

Only one thing Adam said really stands out. _Mistake. It was a mistake._ Tommy leans his head down on the arm of the couch and takes a deep breath. At least...at least he knows.

He wedges himself onto the sofa as carefully as he can, not wanting to wake Maddie up but needing the comfort of her body next to his. He’s sore all over, and his head feels like it’s about to crack open, and all he wants right now is to close his eyes and feel the warmth of another person. One who does want him.

He falls asleep easily, too exhausted, too _worn_ to hang on any longer or to worry about what the world will look like when he wakes up.

When he feels gentle fingers combing through his hair, Tommy only knows time has passed because his headache has lessened from imminent death to a more reasonable pounding. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but Maddie somehow senses he’s awake.

“You feeling okay, baby?” she asks quietly.

“Hungover,” Tommy mumbles.

“When did you get back last night?”

Tommy shifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. His back feels tense and knotted; he falls back into his previous position. “Late. Early. Slept over.”

Maddie makes a noise in the back of her throat, like a cough. “Slept over where?”

“At Adam’s. Sorry. Meant to call.”

“I was worried about you. I didn’t know if you were out drinking or passed out somewhere or if you crashed into a ditch or something.”

“I know, I suck. I’m sorry. We were just...up really late talking. I lost track of time. And then he was too drunk to drive me home.” Tommy tries to sit up, but the room sways unsteadily as he does, and Maddie sighs and pushes him back down.

“Here.” She reaches for the side table and comes back with pills in one hand and a water bottle in the other, and Tommy looks up at her gratefully as he takes them.

“God, thank you. You’re way too good to me...I don’t deserve you.”

She stands up and shakes her head. “You’re right. You don’t.” And Tommy wants to make it up to her, wants to hold her close and rest his head on her shoulder and ask what he can do...but she’s already walking away, and he can feel sleep pulling him back under. He rolls over and stares at the back of the couch, picking at stray fibers with one fingernail. She’ll forgive him. Or maybe she won’t and he’ll have to find a new place to live. He’s been through it all before. Nothing changes.

And then he shifts and feels the soreness in his ass, the not-quite-bruises where Adam’s hands have been, and he realizes that he’s wrong. This is different. This is new.

He hears Maddie come back into the living room a few minutes later, stepping softly, almost soundlessly on the carpet. Tommy blinks himself awake again, thinking she’ll want to talk, but she just leans over him and kisses his cheek.

“I’m going to be at rehearsal all day today,” she tells him. “Will you be all right?”

“Just gonna sleep.”

“Okay. Will you try and call your mother today, if you feel up to it? She left me another message last night,” Maddie says, and Tommy holds back a groan. He loves his mom. He does. But ever since the move, she’s been wanting to talk to him all the time. She calls him more from Hawaii than she ever did from a half-hour away.

Maddie gives him a look, but eventually she relents and kisses his cheek again. Her lips are soft, and Tommy rolls over onto his back, trying to chase them with a real kiss. His thighs rub together and Tommy can feel the bruises there. He remembers Adam’s teeth scraping across that tender skin, and he can’t keep his face neutral. Maddie strokes Tommy’s hair away from his face and asks, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, baby. Don’t let me make you late, too.” She gives him one last searching look, and for a second he thinks she’s going to press the issue. He closes his eyes and prays to no one that she just _goes_. He can’t...he just can’t right now. The words _leave me alone_ are on the tip of his tongue, dying to escape, and he knows they’re cruel, knows he’ll hate himself even more if he says them. If she doesn’t go right now, he’s going to anyway.

But Maddie just turns and picks up her bag, heading out and leaving Tommy alone with an empty house and his own too-busy mind.

He means to go back to sleep, he really does. Instead, he gets up and stumbles his way to the kitchen, finding the coffee Maddie’s left for him and pouring a long shot of whatever the nearest bottle in the liquor cabinet happens to be into the mug with it. Hair of the dog and all that.

He takes a deep drink and recoils at the taste, forcing his eyes to focus on the bottle still sitting on the counter and staring at it like it’s done him wrong. Why does he even _have_ raspberry vodka?

Still, it’ll work, and it beats making a whole new pot. Tommy shrugs and takes the mug right into the shower with him, letting the heat work him from the inside out, hot coffee and hot water and warm rush of fresh alcohol combining to finally let his muscles relax.

He scrubs hard at the sticky spots on his stomach, soaping himself up and rinsing off until his skin is squeaky clean and smooth, and he tries to do the same with his ass, but rubbing the loofa there just hurts, and the soap suds sting, and he has to hold onto the tile wall to stay upright. He turns around and lets the water run down his back instead, exploring with tentative fingers, half expecting to see blood when he pulls his hand away. But his fingers are clean when he looks down at them, and he decides he must just be sore--doesn’t know how anyone _wouldn’t_ be after...Adam. He wonders if it always hurts like this, or... Adam said it shouldn’t. But how could it not? Maybe he’s just not meant for this, too small or too tight, just wrong. Maybe his body is telling him that it’s better to just stick to chicks. They don’t push him like Adam did. Much easier. Safer. And he doesn’t hurt the next day.

After washing his hair and his face, Tommy steps out of the shower and stands, naked and dripping, in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door. He looks himself over slowly, carefully, trying to pick out any suspicious marks on his skin. There’s a bit of red right at the corner of his jaw--he remembers Adam biting him there, but not hard--but it’s nothing Maddie would notice unless she was looking for it. It almost looks like razor burn. Most of the rest of his body looks innocent enough, flushed pink from the shower but otherwise normal. Twisting around, he tries to catch a peek at his back, hardly believing that there could be so little left behind after last night. He feels like it should be written all over him. Like Adam’s fingerprints should be right there, burning into his skin, marking him as...something. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to call himself now. None of the words sound right. He didn’t have sex with a _man._ He had sex with _Adam._ It seems different, in his head.

He wishes there was someone to ask. To explain it to him. Instead, he finishes up the last of his drink and goes to collapse in bed, burying himself under the covers and pretending that he never has to come out.

The hours pass quickly, between napping and watching episodes of _M*A*S*H_ on his laptop. He tries to remain as still as possible on the bed, because moving hurts, but a combination of alcohol and Advil does wonders. By the time Maddie comes home that evening and finds him in the bedroom, Tommy’s feeling mostly normal again. He puts his laptop on the nightstand and sinks deeper into the nest of pillows and blankets he’s built himself.

“You look better,” Maddie says.

“Feel better,” Tommy agrees. “Missed you.” He reaches for her, but she’s not actually all that close to the bed, and she just laughs at him. He drops his hands to his sides, then burrows under the blanket until it’s pulled to his chin.

Maddie walks around to the closet and takes off her gauzy skirt, then the leggings underneath. She bends at the waist to pull the leggings off her ankles, and that leotard doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. She looks back at him, catches him staring, and grins, pulling on her lower lip with her teeth.

“You are the most obvious man in the world,” she says, and Tommy feels a little thrill because she doesn’t even know how wrong she is--or so he hopes. He reaches for her again, clawing at the air like it can pull her closer.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says. “Don’t change. C’mere.”

She smiles softly at the compliment and crawls onto the bed, settling herself in his arms. She’s so light he barely feels the weight of her, and he wraps his arms around her body and pulls her in tighter. He needs to feel her tonight.

She leans down to kiss along his jaw, and when she gets to his ear, she murmurs quietly to him. “Now why does this feel familiar?” He laughs a little, like she expects him to, but suddenly it feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to talk about last night.

But Maddie obviously doesn’t want to let it go, and it’s not like he can tell her to stop. He buries his face in her neck and tries not to listen.

“Now, isn’t this better than being with Adam? He can’t give you this, can he? He can’t make you feel like this. Not like I can.”

He shakes his head, mutters, “No.” But fuck, now he’s _thinking_ about it, thinking about exactly how Adam can make him feel, and he can’t help thrusting up against her, half-expecting her to push back, hold him down, force him still. But she’s smaller than he is, and she just arranges her legs on either side of his hips and rides the motion like they’d planned it together, and Tommy’s frustrated, suddenly, because that’s not what he wanted at all.

“You wanted to make it up to me,” Maddie whispers, leaning low to speak into his ear. “Fuck me tonight, Tommy. Like we could’ve done last night. Like it never happened.”

That sounds like a perfect idea to Tommy. He nods and plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek--realizing belatedly that she doesn’t like it when kisses are sloppy and wet, but it’s too late now--and she climbs off him to strip out of her leotard. Then, in just her sports bra and panties, she slides under the covers with him and reaches for the switch on the bedside lamp.

Her legs are so smooth and thin, sliding against Tommy’s thighs. He reaches down with one hand, cups her ass, pushes his thumb underneath the waistband of her panties to drag them down, and she squirms helpfully, twisting this way and that until she can kick them off and shove them to the bottom of the bed. Tommy moves to her bra next, and it’s kind of a trick to get it off, stretching it over Maddie’s head, but it’s so worth it, all that soft skin right there in his face, his hands fitting perfectly over her as she pushes her chest into his touch. _Not so gay,_ he thinks to himself. He’s still pretty fucking happy to have his hands full of tits.

He teases at her nipples until they start to harden, and darts up to lick at one, and this is familiar, this is good. But then he’s remembering last night again, memories that are at once hazy and sharp, and this is what it had felt like to lean up and kiss Adam’s cock, except that instead of salt-wet hardness under his mouth, it’s sweet, plush skin, moulding to the shape of his lips. There’s no visceral, sharp taste there, nothing that sends a white-hot jolt of lust through his body. She moans and throws her head back, clearly enjoying herself, but Tommy only has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This is what they _do._ What he likes. This is what gets him off, Maddie’s tits in his hands, against his lips, her legs sprawled around his hips.

Tommy distracts himself by reaching out of the blankets for his nightstand drawer for condoms. The moment he has the little square in his hand he remembers Adam above him, the shiny foil flashing in the low light, sparkling in his hands as he ripped it open. Tommy’s fingers slip on the wrapper--he can’t do it, he can’t even open it. Maddie takes it from him.

“Take your pants off, baby,” she murmurs. “I’ll do this.”

And it’s easy enough to relax back into the pillows and just...let her. His body knows what to do, and that’s all she seems to be looking for tonight, sinking down onto him with a low moan. He rests his hands on her hips but doesn’t try to guide her, and she’s just as hot and tight and wet as she always is, feels just as good. But his thoughts are elsewhere, and as much as he tries, he can’t seem to bring them back to the moment, to focus on the sensation.

For a second, he’s not sure he’s even going to be _able_ to get off like this, and it sends a panicky shake all through him. There’ve been times before, when he’s been way, way too drunk, when it’s been...difficult. But he’s hardly had anything today, only that one shot of vodka in the morning and nothing more than beer for the whole rest of the day, and that _can’t_ be enough to... He’s just tired, that’s all. Adam just wore him out, keeping him up all night like that, and he hadn’t slept well either.

But Maddie knows him, knows all the tricks of his body, and eventually she leans down to plant a gentle kiss on his neck and then _bite_ , tiny, sharp teeth digging into his skin and sending a jolt of pain into him, just enough to push him over the edge, gasping and tightening his grip on her hips as he comes.

She hardly waits until he’s finished before raising off of him and sliding up his body in one smooth motion, kneeling right on his pillow and grabbing his hair with both hands. Tommy doesn’t realize just what she’s going for, still hazy from coming, until she’s right in his face, radiating heat and so _wet._

“Come on, baby, you’re not done yet,” she growls, sounding more determined than he’s ever heard her in bed. She tugs hard on his hair, pulling him up toward her, and Tommy feels something tense inside him finally relax. It’s the easiest thing in the world to let himself be directed, and he doesn’t hold back, flattening his tongue and licking a long stripe all the way up through her folds, pressing his face in, getting her wetness all over his face and not caring, _wanting_ it even, wanting her scent on him.

It’s been a while since he’s done this for her--not that he doesn’t always try to make it good for her, but she’s just so shy sometimes, hardly wanting to spread her legs for him at all. Tonight is different. Tonight she’s _grinding_ down into his face, riding him, her clit right against the point of his nose as he fucks her with his tongue, his hands gripping her ass hard.

She’s chanting up at the ceiling, and fuck, he wishes he could see her face right now, see the expression that goes with those mindless words.

“Oh god, Tommy, that’s right, that’s just right, right there, don’t you dare stop...oh _fuck,_ fuck fuck fuck, I can’t...I...” And then her fingers go painfully tight in his hair, and her thighs shake against his ears, and she comes with a _scream_. He works her through it until she goes still, and even then he can’t quite let go of that taste, laying little kitten licks all up and down her sensitive flesh, feeling her twitch and jerk above him as he does. Finally, she lifts herself off him with a groan and stretches out next to him, head pillowed on his shoulder and one arm thrown over his chest.

She looks up at him and smiles, blissful, _satisfied._ And Tommy smiles back, glad to have pleased her, to have done a good job. It’s not until she’s drifted off to sleep that he realizes what the other feeling nagging at the corners of his mind is. He’s...jealous. He wants to feel the way she looks, and it doesn’t seem to matter that he’s come--he still _wants._ And as he watches Maddie sleep, he realizes that what he wants isn’t her. He doesn’t know exactly what it is, but it’s not her. It’s just... more. He wants more, and he keeps waiting for more, but it never comes.

Tommy slides out from beneath her arm and fishes around under the comforter for his pants. He thinks about texting Adam but discards that idea as soon as it pops into his head. He wanders around the house for a few minutes, drifting from room to room, and ends up in the kitchen, where he cracks open a beer to slow down his racing mind. He finishes the beer on the couch, so deep into his sprawl that he’s almost horizontal, but he’s still not tired. He still wants more.

He wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist, feeling sticky all over, and he knows his hair is a mess, but it doesn’t even compare to what he felt with Adam. How dirty, how _satisfied_ he felt with Adam. Sex has never felt like that, not _ever_. He wants...he wants to see Adam again. He wants Adam to _fuck him_ again. But Adam won’t, not even if Tommy stripped naked and asked him point-blank. There’s no way Adam will let last night happen again, no matter how much Tommy begs for it. Tommy groans and lets the empty bottle slip from his hand and roll around on the floor. It doesn’t break, which is kind of unsatisfying too. Tommy kicks it and shoves himself up from the couch to head back to bed.

The next few nights bring him insomnia like he hasn’t experienced in months. He goes to bed with Maddie but never stays long, never fucks her. Instead, he retreats to the couch, or the kitchen, or even the front yard, hoping the deep expanse of night sky will trigger his body to sleep. Counting stars doesn’t help--there just aren’t that many in LA, and the boredom of counting doesn’t make him drowsy at all--so he ends up, without fail, drinking enough to put his mind to rest and crawling into bed in the early hours of morning, trying not to disturb Maddie as he clumsily navigates the bedroom.

He’s frustrated, even days later. Unsatisfied. _Still_. He’s convinced he’s going crazy. But maybe...he takes a deep breath and gets out of bed one more time. Maybe this is the kind of crazy he knows how to fix.

He doesn’t think too much as he pads around the bedroom and pulls on a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. He finger-combs his hair into something faintly stylish, quickly smears a line of black beneath his eyelashes, and pulls on his creepers. He wants to look the part--the part of _what_ , he’s just not sure.

Fully dressed with his jacket thrown over his arm, Tommy stands at the bedroom door, watching Maddie sleep. She’s calm, peaceful in her deep sleep, and Tommy loves her.

“I gotta go,” he whispers, low enough that she can’t hear him. “I’m sorry.”

Adam’s car keys are by the front door. He takes them and his wallet and nothing else.

It feels weird to sit at a bar without his phone in his hand. He’s used to burying himself in a game, or scrolling through his endless twitter feed, and without that little bit of separation between him and the rest of the world, he feels awkward and exposed.

He’s two drinks in and getting restless, impatient. He looks at the door every time he hears it open, scanning the newcomers for some unquantifiable potential. He’s honestly starting to get worried that he won’t find what he’s looking for--he doesn’t even know what that is. He brings his thumb to his mouth and nibbles at the edge of his nail, flaking off a bit of black nail polish.

There’s a man at the door who reminds him of Adam: tall, dark hair, strong torso. But he’s with a friend--a boyfriend, by the looks of it. Tommy’s heart sinks. Then someone taps his shoulder and he whirls around, startled.

“Hey,” says a tall guy in a black leather jacket. Tommy’s gaze automatically skips down his body, lingering on the slice of skin that’s visible between the dude’s shirt and jeans. “Haven’t seen you before,” he continues, and Tommy has to wrench his eyes back up to the man’s face.

“Never been here before,” Tommy tells him.

The man leans close. “You should definitely let me show you around, then,” he says. “I’m Brian.”

“Okay,” Tommy replies.

“What’s your name, kid?” Brian asks. He’s looking at Tommy like Tommy’s a little stupid, and Tommy bristles.

“I don’t think my name is what you’re interested in,” he says coolly, and Brian arches an eyebrow at him. It’s so like one of Adam’s expressions, and Tommy stares, fixated on Brian’s face, on the cut of his jaw and the curve of his bottom lip.

Brain suddenly grins, flashing his teeth, like he just decided to be amused. “Oh, mystery,” he says. “I like that. You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

“I could be,” Tommy answers, even though he thinks the question was probably rhetorical.

“What do you say we get out of here, then?” Brian asks, leaning close, and all trace of amusement has disappeared. He looks like Adam looked last night, like he wants to eat Tommy alive.

Tommy swallows again and licks his lips. He nods. Brian smiles slowly, confidently, and slides his hand around the back of Tommy’s neck to lead him out of the bar.

Brian fucks him on his knees, and it’s nothing like it was with Adam, no overwhelming eye contact, no orders he’s expected to follow. No falling asleep wrapped around each other or waking up just as close. Still...it’s better than being with Maddie, and if it doesn’t quite satiate the nameless desire inside him, it at least damps it down for a while, makes it easier to bear.

Two nights later, he’s back at the bar again, and this time Brian ignores him. A few guys hit on him, though, so Tommy has his pick. He chooses an older guy with sandy blond hair and a thick accent, which is pretty much the exact opposite of Adam, but Tommy figures he should test the waters in any way possible. The man’s name is Sean, and he fucks Tommy’s face, nearly choking him when he comes without warning. He’s not nearly as big as Adam, though he is fairly thick, but Tommy’s throat feels bruised and sore anyway. He tells Maddie he might be coming down with something and she makes him chicken soup. He can hardly keep it down. His stomach churns with guilt.

The very next day, he goes to the bar right when it opens and spends the entire evening there, waiting and drinking and picking at the bits of nail polish still left on his fingers. He meets Johnny and Jeffrey and Sam, but he doesn’t go home with any of them, and he’s feeling both proud of himself and like he failed somehow. At the end of the night, Tommy can barely stand up straight--he can’t, in fact, without holding onto the bar. Nobody’s caught his interest, and he’s kind of sad about that. He says as much to James, the thin, wiry bartender who’s been serving him all night, and James gives him a slow once-over.

James takes him home and kisses him sloppily, and Tommy has to hang on for dear life because he can’t keep up--probably couldn’t even if he’d been sober. He ends up straddling James’ skinny hips and riding him, leaning back against James’ bent knees and grinding down on James’ cock, taking what he thinks he needs because he’s not sure James can give it to him.

The next time Tommy heads to the bar, he doesn’t even make it through the door before catching a glimpse of a guy standing outside, smoking under the neon sign. He’s actually kind of tiny, even shorter than Tommy, and with more tattoos, and Tommy grins. It’s the first time he’s seen someone here he’d want to talk to even if he wasn’t looking to get off. He wanders over to stand next to the guy, leaning back against the brick wall behind them and putting on his most unaffected look.

The guy glances over at him, then asks, “You need a smoke, man?”

Tommy shakes his head. “No thanks. I don’t really do cigarettes.”

“Oh, are you looking for...” The guy glances around. “Seriously, out on the street like this? Come inside, we’ll talk.”

His name is Frank, and he plays guitar. Tommy’s pretty sure he’s in love. They get pretty drunk at the bar, and then they stumble over to Frank’s apartment the next block over, with the promise of weed and more beer. Frank puts on some obscure demo tape from a band Tommy’s never heard of, but he likes their sound. Frank says they’re on the rise and to keep an eye on them. Tommy can’t even remember the band’s name two minutes after Frank tells it to him; he doubts he’ll be keeping track of their career.

Frank lights up as soon as they get settled inside, and Tommy’s eyes almost roll back into his head at the first hit--it’s been _way_ too long since he had the sweet-sour taste of pot in his mouth. He’s floating contentedly, almost not even caring about the beer next to him, or the way Frank’s teeth catch on his lip ring, when Frank’s voice cuts through the fog.

“Hey, asshole, you let that beer get flat and I’m gonna steal it back,” Frank says teasingly, reaching for Tommy’s half-full can of Bud.

Tommy snatches it up and holds it to his chest protectively. “No! Mine!” he whines. It’s been a while since he’s been this wasted--last night’s buzz hadn’t really gotten a chance to wear off before tonight started--but fuck if he’s gonna let free booze out of his hands.

“You are so fucking shitfaced,” Frank says, giggling. “Bet you can’t keep up with me, drink for drink. Lightweight.”

“I so can,” Tommy shoots back. “I’m a fuckin’... I’m a fucking... champion beer drinker.”

That sends Frank off into another wave of giggles and he takes a while to recover. By then, Tommy’s finished his can of beer and pulled another from the cooler situated between the two recliners.

“Falling behind, Frankenstein,” Tommy says, and has a little giggle fit of his own. That sort of rhymed. He is _awesome._ He has seriously missed smoking up.

Tommy thinks he’s doing pretty good until he’s actually puking, leaning over the arm of the recliner and clutching his stomach, which is twisted up in knots. He has no control over his mouth, and he realizes that he hasn’t eaten much of anything all day when all that comes out of him is liquid. He feels awful while it’s happening, but as soon as it’s over, Tommy sits up again, panting for breath and trying not to concentrate on the disgusting taste clinging to his mouth, and he feels almost fine. Still drunk, but that’s probably good, because otherwise he’d be trying to disappear into the furniture in embarrassment.

“Dude,” Frank laughs. “Fuckin’ lightweight, what did I tell ya.”

“Fuckin’ lightweight,” Tommy mumbles. “Your face is a fuckin’ lightweight.”

Frank giggles shrilly and leaps up from his chair. “Come on, man, I can’t fuckin’ look at that all night, it’s disgusting. We are moving this shit to the bedroom.”

He grabs Tommy’s hand and yanks him up, and Tommy’s stomach turns again, but he doesn’t feel sick, just dizzy. He stumbles along after Frank down a narrow hallway, and Frank stops short and shoves him through a door on his left.

“You smell like ass,” Frank says. “I have mouthwash.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy mutters, but mouthwash does sound really good right now. He opens the mirrored cabinet and grabs the bright blue bottle, and he considers just chugging it, washing the foul taste out of his mouth and his throat and his nose, and out of his stomach too. Out of his body completely. He just wants everything out and clean and perfect again, and he can’t remember when things changed so much, when he stopped being clean inside. He takes a mouthful and swishes it around, cringing at the icy-hot mint flavor burning his mouth, but it beats the alternative by a long shot.

He stays hunched over the sink after spitting for a long time, leaning hard on his hands, feeling too unsteady to get all the way back on his feet again. And then Frank’s right there, standing behind him and wrapping tattooed arms around Tommy’s middle, laughing and saying something too loud for Tommy to understand and pulling him toward the bedroom. Tommy makes it most of the way, but his feet get tangled at the end and he falls back onto the bed in a boneless sprawl, legs splayed, one arm hanging off the edge.

Frank bounces onto the bed, half on top of Tommy, and kisses him like he wants to pull that horrible minty-fresh taste out of his mouth. He grabs Tommy’s hair and his chin and holds him steady, and right when Tommy’s getting into it, giving over to the intensity of Frank’s style, Frank’s gone again, tumbling off the bed and grabbing at Tommy’s ankles. He yanks off shoes, socks, then Tommy’s pants without even unbuckling his belt, and when Tommy’s lying naked on the bed, Frank strips with casual efficiency, obviously comfortable in his own skin.

He has more tattoos than Tommy even imagined, and he reaches up automatically to touch the lines crawling over Frank’s chest in a spiderweb of black.

Frank grunts low in his throat and stares down at Tommy. “Way too fuckin’ pretty,” he complains, and Tommy almost wants to apologize. But then Frank is kissing him again, and pressing his body down into Tommy’s, lining up their cocks and moving his hips ceaselessly, a faster and faster beat.

Frank’s hard, and his body fits better against Tommy’s than anyone he’s been with yet, and his kisses are just the right amount of overwhelming. He reaches down, going for Tommy’s cock, and it’s not until he gets his hand wrapped around it that Tommy realizes he’s not hard. Not even a little bit. Frank squeezes him too-tight, too-much, like he’s trying to coax it out of him, but it hurts, and Tommy’s suddenly sure that it just isn’t going to happen tonight. Too drunk, too high, too fucked-out, he doesn’t _know._ Maybe it’s a combination of everything.

“You not into this?” Frank asks breathlessly, still massaging Tommy’s cock but more gently now. “I thought--”

“I am, I really fucking am,” Tommy says, and it’s too much. The humiliation and the emptiness and the throbbing bruises from the entire week, and Frank looking down at him like he’s disappointed, and Tommy chokes up, his eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I want it, I promise, I do. Please, Frankie, I need you in me. I want to feel you.”

Frank sits up, bewildered and swaying a little, and he touches Tommy’s face like he’s not sure the tears are real. “But you’re... Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, I’m so sure, don’t even...just...fuck me. _Please_.”

Frank’s eyes narrow, and he leans close again, and his breath smells like pot-smoke. “You want it that bad, that you’re fuckin’ begging for it? You’re so fucking easy, Tommy. So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you.”

Tommy moans and bares his neck and spreads his legs. _Yes._ Finally. It’s so, so close to what he’s been looking for, and he can’t let it go now. “Dying for it, Frankie, please, please, don’t even want your fingers, just do it. Fucking do it, fucking take me.”

Frank shoves three fingers into Tommy’s mouth and Tommy’s glad of it, doesn’t want to keep begging, even though it hurts his jaw to hold it open so wide. At least this time he doesn’t have to be so careful of teeth, and they drag against Frank’s knuckles and catch on his skin and Frank moans, curling the tips of his fingers to push down against Tommy’s tongue.

He gets lost in the taste of Frank’s fingers, smoke and sweat and salt, and when they disappear he almost whines, feeling empty without the solid weight of them between his lips. But Frank is back in an instant, pressing his hands into Tommy’s soft, bruised thighs, spreading him open. Frank ruts up against him, sliding his slick cock against Tommy’s thigh, and reaches down to position himself.

“Fuck, fuck,” he gasps, and backs away completely. “Need a condom. Fuck. Hold on.”

“No, fuck, come on,” Tommy groans, but Frank doesn’t listen to him. “Come on, hurry. Need you.”

Frank rolls off the bed and crosses to the dresser, pulling open the middle drawer, then the top one, and digging through it with no thought to the socks flying out. “Shut the fuck up, hold on.”

Tommy closes his eyes and lets his hands wander slowly over his body, shivering a little, suddenly cold even though it’s warm in the room. Even the touch of his own hands is almost too much on oversensitive skin, and he gasps when he reaches his cock, soft and small. It’s so fucking _weird_ , to be this turned on and not be hard. He’s never felt like this before, and he runs his fingertips up and down the length experimentally, wanting to feel more. But when Frank finally digs up a condom and turns around, Tommy whips his hand away, like he’s doing something wrong and doesn’t want to be caught at it. Instead, he looks at Frank through his lashes and says, “Fucking took you long enough. Come on, come _on..._ ”

Frank clambers onto the bed, pushing Tommy’s legs apart roughly and shuffling forward on his knees until his cock is pressed up right against Tommy’s balls. Frank reaches for Tommy again, strokes his cock like he can’t even believe Tommy’s not hard, and Tommy can understand that. His body feels like a battle inside, half of him wanting so badly to come he’s shaking with it, and the other half just wanting to curl up in a ball and sleep. He bites his lip, breathing hard through his nose until Frank lets him go and slides his hands down to his own dick, which he lines up blunt and perfect against Tommy’s ass.

Tommy stares up at him, waiting, hoping, and he watches Frank lean back, his hips thrust forward and holding Tommy’s legs so wide his thighs start to ache. Frank presses his lips together and makes a face, and it’s on the tip of Tommy’s tongue to ask what’s wrong, why he isn’t just _fucking_ yet, when Frank curls forward and spits on Tommy’s ass. Tommy gasps when the wet glob hits him, slides down his skin until it reaches the spot where Frank’s cock is touching him, and then Frank reaches down to rub the wetness around Tommy’s asshole. And then he doesn’t waste any time before pushing his cock in.

It’s hard and fast and it _hurts_ \--Frank’s nowhere near Adam’s size, but Tommy’s not really ready and it’s not wet enough and it shouldn’t be good at all. But Tommy throws his head back onto the bed and pounds his fists into Frank’s back and pleads with him for more until his mouth goes dry and he can’t speak any more, just breathes through it, lets all his muscles go limp and gives himself up to Frank’s breakneck pace. He can feel a familiar blackness starting to creep in around the edges of his eyes, pulling him under, and for a while every thrust brings him up a bit, keeps him there, _present._ But eventually, the pull is too strong, too much alcohol and not enough clean blood, and Tommy can’t help but let the world fade out, Frank still moving inside him, spitting curses and digging his nails into Tommy’s ass.

He’s not sure how he gets home after--he doesn’t remember calling a cab, so maybe Frank did it for him--but he’s glad Maddie’s not home when he stumbles into their bed and passes out with his clothes still haphazardly zipped and buttoned wrong around him. When he finally wakes up the next afternoon, he spends a long time looking in the mirror, at the red crescents Frank’s nails pressed into his ass, and he’s surprised to feel so guilty. Frank was obviously a decent guy--he didn’t deserve having to deal with Tommy’s shit. _No one deserves that_ , he thinks.

He resolves not to go to the bar again.

Three days pass before the craving gets too strong, and he greets the glowing neon sign with resignation. This is who he is, now. There’s nothing else he can do.

*

“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” Adam says, and Brad smiles brightly. Adam feels himself smile in return. He’s always had that reaction to Brad’s smiles.

“The New Media awards, are you kidding me? I own this thing. Well...I _would_ if they’d given me an invite.” After a few seconds, Brad’s smile softens and he relaxes into the man Adam knows so much better than Cheeks. “Sorry about Jake, by the way. It was all over twitter. I should’ve called you when I heard...”

Adam looks down and takes a breath. It’s starting to get easier to talk about him, but slowly. Very slowly. He has other things on his mind to distract him. “We were supposed to come to this together. We had outfits picked out and everything.”

“Matching?” Brad asks, then bumps Adam’s shoulder with his own. “You can do so much better than him, baby.”

“I know that _now_ ,” Adam replies bitterly. “Where were you three months ago when I needed to hear this?”

Brad waves a hand. “You wouldn’t have listened. So tonight, I will help you find a rebound. We’re going out after, right? An unofficial afterparty? You know I love afterparties.”

 _Rebound._ The word brings with it a flurry of images, flooding Adam’s head with blond hair and wide, brown eyes and smooth, pale skin, and he shakes them away roughly. Tommy’s not a rebound. Tommy’s a _friend._ Adam hopes he’s still a friend, anyway. Not all of his exes stay as amiable as Brad has.

Brad’s staring at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for a reply, and Adam coughs and says, “Yeah, totally. Afterparty. Whatever you want.”

“O--kay,” Brad says, stretching the word out and looking at Adam like he thinks he might be losing it. “Except when do you ever care what everyone else wants? What do you want to do? We can just go home after, if you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Adam snaps, then immediately regrets it. Besides, he knows exactly what he wants, and he fucked that right up. He sighs and rubs his forehead, hiding his face from Brad’s knowing look. “I’m just all over the place right now. I’m sorry.”

Brad glances out the tinted window of the car and says, “Well, sorry to tell you, babe, but you better pull it together quick. Let’s just get through the cameras, all right? We can decide about plans or whatever later. It’s not like we’re not gonna have plenty of time to kill. These things always run late.”

The car slows to a halt in front of a walkway crowded with photographers. Brad puts his hand on the door and reaches for Adam with the other.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice soft. Adam nods. Brad pushes the door open and steps out, then waits for Adam’s guiding hand at his back before moving forward into the spotlight, like a perfect date. They smile and pose and don’t hold hands, even though Adam could do with the comfort and familiarity of it, and Brad gives him encouraging looks from the sidelines when the photographers ask Adam to pose by himself. It’s an achingly long time before they’re allowed to escape into the main dining room.

Adam hardly tastes his food, just eats what’s put in front of him and tries not to look too sad. The cameras are more limited inside, but they’re still around, and if there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few years, it’s that he can’t let his guard down for a second. Beside him, Brad picks at his food and makes small talk like a pro, making everything look so damn easy. Adam wonders sometimes why Brad isn’t the more famous of the two of them. He almost says as much, then thinks better of it and closes his mouth again. Brad probably wouldn’t see it the same way.

“Okay, that’s it,” Brad says, letting his fork clatter down onto his plate. “I wasn’t gonna ask, because I know you just broke up. But seriously, what is your _deal?_ There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“I don’t tell you everything anymore.”

“Yeah, but you tell me the important stuff, and _something_ is bothering you. Tell me what it is! Let me help.”

“We haven’t even talked in weeks,” Adam says miserably.

“I _know_. Which is why I’m kind of freaking out over here. What has gotten into you? What’s going on?” Brad takes a careful sip of his wine and sets his glass down gently. “You obviously need lessons in catching up, because you’re totally failing at it right now.”

Adam closes his eyes and thinks about what a truly horrible idea this is. But he’s been not talking about it ever since it happened, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without telling _someone._ At least Brad’s discreet. When he wants to be. When it’s important. He rests his hands on the table and levels his gaze at Brad.

“Okay. Fine. But don’t get all...” Adam trails off, waving one hand in the air, searching for the right word.

Brad rolls his eyes. “I promise, I won’t be all...” He copies Adam’s motion and then catches his hand midair and gives it one squeeze before letting go. “I just wanna know that you’re okay.”

Adam sighs deeply and says, under his breath. “I already found my rebound.”

“That’s... great?” Brad cocks his head, obviously confused. Adam wants to shake him and make him understand how awful this is.

“I slept with Tommy.”

Brad’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “You _what_? You do know he’s straight, right?”

“Yeah, I fucking know that,” Adam snaps. “It was a mistake. We were so fucking drunk, and all of a sudden we were kissing and I was on top of him and--”

“Jesus,” Brad hisses. “Shut up, this isn’t the place.”

“It just happened,” Adam tells him. “It was so fucked up, and... and it was his first time, and I didn’t know until after, and I just feel fucking awful and now me and him aren’t talking and I don’t even know if he got home okay, but now it’s been like a week and I haven’t seen reports of him turning up dead, so I guess--”

“What the hell _happened_?” Brad asks in a loud whisper. “What were you even--Just... _What_?”

“I don’t fucking know, all right?”

Brad leans close, pressed up against Adam’s side, almost sitting in his lap. “How did you not know it was his first time? What did you do?”

“He didn’t tell me. He didn’t even tell me after, I had to fucking _guess_ , and--Brad.”

“What,” Brad says flatly, like he can’t believe it gets worse.

“He’s still with his girlfriend,” Adam whispers. He can’t bring himself to look at Brad’s face. He’s not sure what he’ll find there: pity or disappointment, or maybe anger. It could be anything, and Adam’s a fucking coward for not finding out. He feels like utter shit, and Brad feels amazing next to him--small and perfect and warm, and Adam’s _missed_ him. He puts an arm around Brad’s waist so he won’t move away.

Brad tilts his head up until his lips are just brushing Adam’s ear, and Adam shivers, remembering so clearly what that mouth felt like on his neck, his mouth...everywhere. He can’t think, can’t react. He closes his eyes and waits. It’s Brad’s call.

Warm breath on him, and then... “You’re a fucking idiot. And I am _so_ getting you laid tonight.”

Brad gets him through the next hour of unenthusiastic applause and boring speeches, and while they’re in the car on the way to a club, Brad texts... well, it seems like he texts everyone they know to come out and meet them.

“Like the old days,” Adam murmurs, and Brad nods happily.

“Remember what it was like?” Brad asks, grinning.

Adam smiles. “I can’t believe we went out in some of those outfits.”

Brad clutches his chest, mouth open in faux-offense. “Whatever, I always looked amazing! That’s on you if you couldn’t measure up.”

Adam narrows his eyes and lets his hand slide down to rest high up on his thigh, pulling his pants tight. “You were saying something about measuring up?”

At that, Brad laughs out loud. “See, better already! Now you just need a cocktail in hand and a twink on your lap and your cure is complete.”

“Do I have to call you in the morning, Doctor Bell?” Adam asks, stuttering over his own laughter.

Brad wrinkles his nose. “Please don’t. I think we’ve overshared enough for one night.”

Adam’s good mood lasts until they step out of the car at the club. There aren’t a ton of paparazzi there, but the few that are easily snap up all the energy Adam has to smile. By the time they make it inside, and they’re greeted by a handful of old Burner friends, Adam starts wishing he’d gone home. But Brad is at his side, and Brad notices everything, and he steers them to one of the VIP tables and shoves Adam into the back of the booth, away from anyone not in their party.

Brad scoots in next to Adam until they’re both facing out into the darkened club, a seething mass of scantily-dressed, sparkling people. Adam watches the dancers for a few minutes, and when he looks down again, Brad’s shuffling shot glasses and limes.

Adam sniffs, quirks an eyebrow, and asks, “Patron? Really?”

Brad pours and lifts the glass in a toast to Adam. “Your treat, baby. Big spender.”

Adam downs the shot and bites the lime, and every time he looks up there’s a new person sitting across from him. A few stick around, but most head back out to the dance floor, and their booth turns into a revolving door of people Adam hasn’t seen in months, or even longer. And every time he looks back down, there’s a new drink within his grasp. He takes the shots, and he sips the cocktails, and his head starts getting muddled. Mixing different types of alcohol always hits him hard. He squints at Brad, who’s laughing and shining and has a tall guy leaning against him. Adam doesn’t know him, and he tries not to get jealous when the guy puts a hand on Brad’s thigh.

“Adam!” Brad shouts. “I want you to meet David.”

Adam holds out his hand to the guy next to Brad, but they both laugh at him. Brad gestures to the other side of the table, where a half-naked boy is lounging on the opposite bench. He’s pretty cute: dark hair, tattoos crawling down his chest, insanely tight shorts. Brad has good taste.

“David,” he says, trying the name out. He’s not sure he’s pronouncing it right, and it’s not even a hard name to say. “Fuck. Hi.”

“Hey,” David replies, and his eyes look hazy when he crawls into Adam’s lap and gets right in his face. Adam hears the wet sounds of Brad and his guy kissing and decides to join the club. David’s lips are soft and his tongue is playful in Adam’s mouth and he feels amazing in Adam’s hands, but Adam doesn’t feel even the slightest spark of desire for him. He kisses David a while longer, though, because it’s fun and because Brad suggested this guy for him, but he knows they won’t be hooking up later, no matter how insistent David’s hands are on Adam’s crotch.

Between drinks, David disappears, obviously sensing Adam’s disinterest. He’s replaced by a more familiar face, though, and Adam breaks into a grin.

“Holy _fuck_ , Brad, you didn’t tell me you invited Ziggy!” Adam exclaims, reaching out to grab the guy sitting next to him and pulling him into a hug.

“I didn’t.” Brad’s voice is flat behind him, but Adam’s too distracted to pay him much attention.

“Hey, man, yeah, I was doing the club crawl with Cass and heard you were out amongst the commoners. And you know me, can’t miss out on an opportunity like that.”

Ziggy’s hair is even longer than it had been the last time Adam saw him, hanging almost down to his waist in dirty blond waves, but other than that he looks pretty much the same--same dirty band t-shirt, same wide smiling mouth, same red eyes. Adam can’t remember if he ever knew the guy’s real name, or if his parents were just weird fucks and actually named him Ziggy, but that’s what he’s always called him, and Ziggy’s never corrected him.

“What have you been up to, man? It’s been, god, _years_ ,” Adam says, marveling at how fast the time has gone.

“Oh, you know,” Ziggy says. “This and that. Nothin’ much. Played drums for some band for a while, made lawn art for this old dude out of scrap metal. The usual.”

“Fuck, man,” Adam breathes. He almost wishes he could do that, just float from gig to gig, picking up odd jobs along the way. “Sounds awesome.”

“Guess I don’t even have to ask what you’ve been up to,” Ziggy laughs. “Mister Superstar.”

“Oh, don’t,” Adam groans. He slaps the table and smiles, but in the pit of his stomach, Ziggy’s comment twists and hurts like a spike. “I’m boring. Tell me more about you.”

“Well now this sounds like a first date!” Ziggy leans over and flutters his eyelashes, cackling. He stops when he catches Adam’s gaze, though. “Dude, you look dead. You need to relax, man.”

“Jeez, Ziggy, have a little tact,” Brad grumbles from Adam’s other side. He’s scooted in close, almost possessive with his arm stretching over into Adam’s space on the table.

Adam nudges Brad’s shoulder, a little more roughly than he meant to. “Why didn’t you tell me I look like shit? Shouldn’t real friends tell each other that?”

He’s fully aware how pathetic he sounds, but the words keep coming out of his mouth, and eventually Brad climbs out of the booth, his nameless friend in tow. “We’re going to dance,” he tells them in a flat tone that Adam recognizes, one that means he’s fucked up somehow. “If that’s how you’re gonna be.”

“Whatever, man,” Ziggy says, as soon as Brad’s out of earshot. “Come on, I got some shit that’ll chill you out.”

Adam looks for Brad on the dance floor but all he can see is the tall guy’s dark hair and Brad’s arms around his neck. “I shouldn’t,” he murmurs to Ziggy. He’s already pretty wasted. He doesn’t even know why Brad’s upset with him.

Ziggy leans in close and pulls a prescription pill bottle out of his jacket pocket, shaking it so Adam can hear the pills rattling around inside. He’d lay money that whatever’s in the bottle doesn’t even come close to matching what it says on the label. “Come on, man, one night. Who’s gonna know? It’s on me,” Ziggy says, and fuck, Adam _wants_ it. The Xanax he’d popped before getting ready for the show this afternoon has definitely worn off by now, and the alcohol isn’t doing the trick. He can’t remember the last time he really felt relaxed--everything’s been stress on top of stress lately, with work and Jake and Tommy, and anyway, doesn’t he deserve this, just a couple _hours_ to be his old self again and pretend no one even knows his name?

“Adam.”

Adam turns around, makes himself dizzy, and finally settles his gaze on Brad, who’s standing at the end of the table with a hand on his hip. “What?” he asks, feeling clumsy and self-conscious. He’s still not sure why Brad’s so angry, but he recognizes the signs and he knows how to deal with these moods.

“Me and Matt want to get out of here, are you coming? Or are you finding your own way home?” The way he says it makes it sound like he looks down on people who take cabs or who beg rides from friends, but that can’t be right because Brad does that all the time.

Adam looks back at Ziggy, then down at the drink that has appeared in his hand. He doesn’t know when he grabbed it, but it’s almost gone now. He finishes it.

“Adam,” Brad says again. “Are you coming?” He’s about two seconds away from tapping his foot, Adam can tell. He laughs and Brad looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Gimme your number,” he tells Ziggy. “We’ll hang out. Catch up.”

“Sure thing, dude,” Ziggy replies. “I make the rounds at all the hotspots. You should come out with us sometime. Now that you’re not all tied down and shit.”

“ _Adam_ , come on,” Brad snaps. “Let’s go.”

Adam barely gets Ziggy’s number programmed into his phone before Brad starts pulling him out of the booth and towards the exit, where their car is waiting. Brad and Matt climb in after him, and they sit close together, but they aren’t kissing or even touching anymore. Adam feels like he should apologize for messing up their night, but he can’t figure out what he did, and he hates apologizing for things that aren’t his fault.

The car drops Adam off at his house, and the driver has instructions to take Brad wherever they want to go, so Adam stumbles up to his front door alone. His car is still missing, he realizes. Tommy must still have it. He should call Tommy. Maybe tomorrow. He needs his car back. He needs his _friend_ back.

*

The guy’s name is Josh, and he’s got to be some kind of professional athlete or something to have muscles like that, but Tommy doesn’t know for sure. They really didn’t talk very much before leaving the bar. Tommy doesn’t really care.

Josh practically carries him into the house, and Tommy can’t decide if Josh just likes that he _can_ do that or if Tommy is actually too drunk to walk on his own. His brain sort of isn’t working right now, and his feet seem very far away, way down there on the floor, and he giggles into Josh’s chest.

Josh doesn’t ask what he’s laughing about, which is good because Tommy can’t remember, doesn’t know. Instead, he just stares down at Tommy’s face, one big hand cupping his jaw, and growls. “Fuck. Gonna fucking take you apart, boy.”

Tommy shudders and closes his eyes, waiting for a kiss that doesn’t come. He finally opens them again to see Josh just towering over him, staring at him, so intense and so serious. Tommy opens his mouth.

“Where’s your bed?” Josh asks. “I wanna spread you out so wide, fuck you so hard...”

Tommy gulps in a mouthful of air and spins around, heading down the hallway. Josh stays close behind him, crowding Tommy against the wall and pushing him forward until Tommy reaches the door. He lurches through it, tripping over things and unsteady on his feet without the wall to hold him up, and collapses onto the wide bed. Maddie’s sweater is tangled around his ankle, and he shakes his foot to get it off, laughing, knowing he looks ridiculous.

Josh doesn’t look, doesn’t ask, just crawls over Tommy and presses him into the bed, holding him down by the neck and digging his teeth into Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy’s brain whites out, everything else erased by the sharp jolt of pain-pleasure that shoots through him. He relaxes back into the pillows, content to let Josh lick and bite and do what he likes. He halfheartedly thrusts his hips up into the firm pressure of Josh’s body over him, but his body doesn’t react, too drunk, too exhausted. He doesn’t even care if he comes. It’s not about that any more. He doesn’t know if it ever was.

And Josh is fucking perfect right now, because he doesn’t seem to give a shit about Tommy’s cock at all. He just stands up and strips naked and sits up against the headboard of the bed, stroking himself and staring impatiently at Tommy. “Come on now, boy, I want you up here on my dick.”

Tommy flips himself onto his stomach, feeling like a fish out of water. His limbs don’t seem to move the way he wants them too, but he manages to get on his hands and knees to crawl over between Josh’s legs. He ducks down to lick Josh’s fingers, and the little spaces between them where he can taste Josh’s cock, and Josh grabs a handful of his hair and sits him up again.

“Want you on my dick,” Josh says again, his voice low and rumbly, and Tommy can feel it in his chest. He nods as best he can, ignoring the tight pull of his hair clenched in Josh’s fist, and flaps his hand in the direction of the nightstand.

“Got condoms,” he mumbles. His lips feel bruised and weak. He licks them. “Need a condom, hold on. Let go.”

Josh grips him tighter for a second, and in that moment Tommy realizes just how much bigger he is, how much stronger... He realizes that if Josh decides he wants to fuck him bare, there’s not going to be a whole lot Tommy can do about it. The thought should be terrifying, but Tommy just waits, looks back into Josh’s face. He doesn’t feel scared. He just feels _numb._

Josh finally pushes Tommy’s head away and Tommy sways, nearly tumbling off the bed. He slaps clumsily at the nightstand drawer and pulls out a little foil square, but his fingers are too fat and weak and sweaty, and he can’t get the thing open. He puts it between his teeth and yanks hard and the wrapper splits, spilling the condom out into Tommy’s hand. He fumbles it and finally manages to get his fingers coordinated enough to push it onto Josh’s cock. Josh is big and thick--bigger than most of the guys Tommy’s gone home with recently, but not as big as Adam. Tommy hasn’t met anyone with a bigger cock than Adam. He finds himself almost disappointed.

He doesn’t have lube, hasn’t ever needed it at home, and he sucks Josh’s cock into his mouth instead, as sloppy and wet as he can make it. Josh swears and drags him off by his hair, and Tommy does as he’s prompted, letting Josh turn him around and lay him back against his chest, so they’re both leaning back against the headboard. Josh holds his cock steady as Tommy sinks down, and fuck, this is different, this position. He feels so exposed, like he’s on display, nothing to look at but the empty room, nothing to steady him but Josh’s hand on his hip, forcing him into a quick, brutal pace.

Tommy looks down at himself, at his legs splayed wide over Josh’s thick, muscular thighs and his cock, half-hard and bouncing hilariously against his thigh, and he feels so small. He closes his eyes against the sight and reaches back to hold onto Josh’s shoulder, and Josh is so firm and smooth everywhere Tommy can’t even get a grip. He groans and instead concentrates on the feel of that thick cock stretching him open. The pain of it, the pleasure spiking through him when Josh slams in just right.

He reaches down to get a hand on his dick, and he’s changed his mind, he really fucking wants to come, just like this, riding Josh’s cock. He can hear himself crying out, louder with each stroke, and normally he would be embarrassed, but right now he’s too far gone, too drunk to care. Josh slides down and gets both his hands on Tommy’s hips in a tight grip, fucking up into him fast and hard with all the power of those muscles behind him, and oh fuck, it’s exactly right, just enough to push Tommy over the edge, coming all over himself and Josh’s legs and the bed. He closes his eyes and throws his head back and strokes himself faster, and god, he wants to feel Josh come too, lose it inside him right as Tommy comes.

Josh keeps fucking him for a moment longer, keeps up the same steady, unforgiving pace, and then he falters. His grip on Tommy’s hair goes lax. Tommy moans, grinds himself down on Josh’s cock, but it doesn’t feel like Josh is coming yet.

“Come on,” he pleads. “Come on, come on, I wanna feel it, fucking do it, come on.”

“Fuck,” Josh gasps in his ear. He grabs Tommy’s hips and lifts him off, and Tommy’s eyes fly open. He looks around wildly, wondering why Josh stopped when he was so close--Tommy feels almost like he didn’t get to come either, deprived of Josh’s release.

“Tommy...”

Tommy doesn’t remember telling Josh his name; Josh never asked. He looks up over his shoulder, searching Josh’s face, but Josh isn’t looking at him. Josh is looking past him, at Maddie, who’s standing in the doorway. Tommy stares at her and she stares right back, and he’s suddenly very conscious of the come staining his stomach, and the bite marks on his shoulder, and the bruises on the insides of his thighs, all so exposed to her now.

Josh pushes Tommy off his lap and Tommy collapses to the floor, slamming his knees to the thin carpet painfully. He looks up as Josh makes a beeline for the exit, clutching his jeans and shirt in front of his crotch. Maddie doesn’t spare him a glance. She’s still watching Tommy, tears streaming down her face and her mouth dropped open.

“Maddie...” Tommy starts, his voice rough and broken, unsure what to say. If there _is_ anything to say.

She holds out a hand. “ _Don_ ’ _t._ ”

Cold, sobering disappointment surges through Tommy’s body. The reality of what’s happening is slowly dawning on him, and he’s more disgusted with himself with every passing second. He sits back on his heels, not even bothering to cover himself or all of the incriminating marks, and lays his hands flat on his thighs, palms facing up.

“I don’t know what to say,” he tells her. “I’m sorry? I just...”

“Shut up,” she snaps, her voice thick and choked. “You don’t get to talk right now. _Fuck_ , Tommy.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“I knew about the girls. I was willing to look past that, Tommy. I was willing to let it go, because I loved you, and I thought you loved me--”

“I do!”

“But this is too far. I can’t forget this, Tommy. I can’t just ignore it. This is... This is disgusting. _You_ are disgusting.”

Tommy doesn’t contradict her. She’s right.

Maddie lets herself fall back against the wall and buries her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I was so stupid. I thought...I thought what we had was special. That maybe I was the one you’d change for. But you’ll never change, will you? You’ll be a lying, cheating asshole until the day you die.”

Tommy lets his tears spill over and clasps both hands in front of his chest. “Please, no, I’ll be better, I swear. I promise. Maddie, please don’t say that. I can be better. I’ll stop, I promise. I promise.” He’s breathing so fast he feels lightheaded, and his hands are slippery with sweat, his nails digging into his palm, and it _hurts_ , but it doesn’t distract him at all from the punch to the gut Maddie’s words deliver.

He shuffles towards her, extending one hand as a gesture of peace, but she slaps his wrist and shoves it away. Shoves him away.

“Get the fuck out,” she cries. “Get out of my house.”

“No, Maddie, come on. Come on, please...”

He pushes himself to one knee, then up to his feet, and he feels her gaze track down his body. He feels her looking at the come on his stomach, and his pathetic, spent cock, and he wants to curl up and die.

Maddie bends down and snatches up a pair of Tommy’s jeans from the floor. She throws them at him. “Clean yourself up. You’re disgusting. Then get the fuck out.”

He knows he should do what she says--his skin is crawling, and he wants a burning hot shower and clothes that don’t smell like whiskey and smoke. But he can’t stay in this house one more minute, he _can_ ’ _t._ He yanks the jeans on, grabs the first shirt he finds, and goes for the door. He doesn’t even stop to put on shoes.

He’s three blocks away when the pain in his feet finally filters through the haze of alcohol and shock clouding his brain. He stands still, under the glow of a streetlamp, and looks up and down the street. He needs help. He needs someone. He pats his pockets, looking for his phone, suddenly immensely grateful that Maddie had picked up the jeans he’d discarded less than an hour ago.

“Mike?” he pants, listening to the phone ring on the other end. “Mike? Help me. I need help. Mike.”

Mike finally answers, groggily saying Tommy’s name until Tommy shuts up and lets him speak. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Need help,” Tommy tells him. Now that he’s not moving, he feels sick. He feels like he’s about to fall over. He thinks his feet might be bleeding. He clutches the streetlamp, shifting his weight. “Can you pick me up?”

“Okay, sure, let me get dressed... Where are you?”

“Um... couple blocks away from home. I forgot my shoes.”

“You did not seriously just call me to drive you home when you’re three blocks away, right?”

“Can’t go home. Maddie’s home. Maddie--” Tommy’s stomach twists and he can’t finish the sentence. He starts breathing hard again, trying to keep himself from puking or crying or dying of guilt and humiliation.

“Fuck, man... I’m coming, all right? Gimme five minutes. Where are you, on the street? Sit down, Tommy, just sit down where you are, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.”

Tommy sits down right there next to the streetlamp, not letting go of it for a second. He turns his head toward it and closes his eyes. It’s late, and it’s unlikely anyone will walk by, but he can’t take the chance, doesn’t want to see the looks in their eyes. He concentrates on breathing through all the pain, and sooner than he expects, he feels headlights shining on his eyelids.

Mike opens the door for him and helps him in, and when they get back to his place, he climbs right into the shower with Tommy, holding him up while the hot water washes his skin clean. He falls against Mike’s sturdy frame as he’s stepping out of the tub, and for a second he can’t get his bearings. Everything goes dizzy, and he finds Mike’s face only after a whole minute of trying.

“Where...where’s Dave, did he make it back?” Tommy hears himself ask.

Mike’s eyes go wide. “Tommy...we haven’t lived with Dave in years. This is my apartment, mine and Gina’s. Remember? We moved out of our old place when you and Maddie got together.”

Tommy squints at Mike for a long time, and he wants to smile, reassure Mike that he’s fine, yeah, sorry for doing this to you again, man. But when he opens his mouth to speak, his body doesn’t give him the chance. He’s puking on the floor before he even realizes it’s about to happen, and Mike jumps back as far as he can and still keep Tommy from hitting the ground.

When his stomach finally stops clenching in agony, Tommy leans against his friend and breathes slowly through his mouth. He’s vaguely aware of another person coming in, and for one confused minute he thinks it’s Dave after all, but it’s a woman’s voice that speaks.

“Jesus, is he okay?”

“I think so,” Tommy feels Mike say. He likes the vibrations in Mike’s chest. It’s comforting to feel the words rather than hear them. Mike rubs Tommy’s back. “I think he’s just drunk.”

“M’sorry,” Tommy mumbles. “Didn’ mean to.”

“I know, Tommy,” Mike says quietly. “It’s all right.”

“I wanna go t’bed now,” Tommy tells him miserably.

“Oh, fuck. Tommy...” Mike looks around and pulls Tommy up until he’s standing straight. Tommy’s abs ache and he groans pitifully. “You can sleep on the couch tonight, but... Tommy, you’ve seen how small this place is. Are you sure you can’t go home? Maybe things will blow over...”

Tommy shakes his head hard enough to make himself dizzy again. “ _No._ It’s not...it’s her house. I fucked up. I can’t... I can’t.”

Mike sighs and runs a hand through his hair, resigned. “Shit, man. Tomorrow we’ll find you another place to stay, okay? Somewhere with a bed.”

Tommy feels his face crumple and the tears start again. He sags in Mike’s arms. “Adam,” he mutters. “Can you take me to him?”

“Yeah, of course, Tommy, of course. We’ll call him tomorrow, all right? Let’s get you lying down, okay? Come on.”

He lies down on the sofa where Mike deposits him, with his head resting on a scratchy throw pillow and a too-warm blanket over him, but he doesn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, he watches the light spilling out of the kitchen and listens to Mike and his girlfriend talking.

“You don’t seem surprised to see him like this.”

“Fuck, Gina, I thought things were better. He and Maddie were good together. Last I heard, anyway. But...Tommy’s not really a relationship guy, y’know? This wouldn’t be the first time a girl’s tossed him out on his ass.”

It hurts to hear that said out loud, but it’s true. Maddie’s words echo in his head. _You_ ’ _ll be a lying, cheating asshole until the day you die._ He turns his face into the pillow and tries hard not to cry. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I tried.”

“Awfully nice of you to pick him up. In the middle of the night. When he’s falling down drunk. You’re too nice, baby,” Gina says.

“You don’t want him here?”

Tommy holds his breath, waiting for her answer. “No, I don’t mind, for one night, anyway. But I do wonder a little bit...why you do it.”

A sigh. “Sometimes I do, too. But I couldn’t just leave him like that, Gina. He’s my friend. He’ll always be my friend, no matter how many times this happens. He needs people that love him. He has... trouble on his own.” Tommy’s heart swells. He doesn’t deserve friends like Mike.

“Trouble how?” Gina asks, and Tommy wants to know what Mike thinks of him, but he’s fading fast, and he can’t hold his eyes open any longer. The voices blur into the background, and when he wakes up, he’s not sure what was a dream and what was real. If any of it was real at all.

*

Adam’s running hard on his treadmill, sweating through his shirt and burning all the alcohol out of his system. He felt awful this morning, and the exercise is helping, but he still feels like he’s gone wildly off-track. The treadmill is nice. He’s facing out to his backyard, and he can run for however long he needs, and the scenery doesn’t change. He listens to the steady thump of his feet on the belt and zones out, ignoring the blinking lights telling him how fast and how far he’s gone. He thinks instead about the things he has to do, but he gets distracted halfway through the list.

 _Call Tommy about the car_. That thought leads to others about Tommy, and those lead back to that night, the one Adam’s scared to put a name to. He should have called Tommy the next day, made plans for the car and laughed off the night before, but he didn’t and now it’s been almost two weeks, and just the idea of calling feels _wrong._ It gets worse with every day he puts it off, but he still can’t force himself to pick up the phone.

He’s wondering if he can just adjust to life with one car, chalk that one up as a loss and forget about it, when the doorbell rings. Adam nearly falls off the treadmill in his surprise. He doesn’t get unexpected visitors, with the imposing coded gate at the front of his property. He shuts off the treadmill and grabs a towel and jogs to the door, trying to cool down a little on the way so his calves don’t seize up.

When he swings the door open, it’s Tommy standing there on his step, huddled into a thick hoodie even though it’s like ninety degrees outside. Adam looks past him and sees his car, and he opens his mouth to thank Tommy for bringing it back, but then he notices the familiar red suitcase at Tommy’s side.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, um. I was hoping, like... here. Can I stay here a few nights?”

Adam peers closely at Tommy’s face, but he can’t make out Tommy’s eyes behind his flashy sunglasses, and he can’t tell if Tommy’s upset or just casually asking to stay. His voice sounds so... blank.

Tommy fidgets on the step, clenching his fist around the handle of his suitcase, and Adam steps back and gestures him inside. “Yeah, yeah, of course. As long as you need...” Adam says.

Tommy laughs humorlessly and shoves his sunglasses up into his hair. “Thanks, but maybe don’t...anyway. Thanks.” He steps inside, and Adam closes the door behind him.

“Did something happen? Are you all right?” Adam asks, and instantly regrets it when Tommy’s face crumples. “Wait, no, never mind, you don’t have to...just come in. Relax for a second.”

Tommy’s eyes cut away to the floor, and Adam’s suddenly very aware of what he’s wearing, of every inch of sweaty, flushed skin his tank top exposes. He wants to wrap his arms around himself and hide. He doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “You look tired.”

Tommy laughs again, and honestly, he looks more than tired. He looks...thin. _Stretched_ , almost. The bags under his eyes are heavier than Adam’s ever seen them, and his eyes look painfully red and bloodshot. “I shouldn’t. I slept like eleven hours last night.”

“Jesus.”

“Broke up with Maddie,” Tommy adds, like an afterthought.

Adam’s jaw drops. “Are you serious? It wasn’t... Was it because of me?” he asks carefully. Tommy shakes his head minutely and Adam instantly feels a rush of relief, but guilt quickly follows.

“I just can’t stay there anymore, so I needed, like... a place with a bed. I won’t get in your way or anything. I know you’re busy. I’ll just... hang out. Watch movies and sleep.”

Adam laughs and looks at the massive space around them. “I don’t think you have to worry about being in the way. Besides, it’s been...it’s been pretty quiet since Jake left. Feels empty,” he says. Tommy doesn’t answer, still doesn’t meet his eyes, and Adam knew this would be weird. _Knew_ it.

“I’m sorry. About...you know. About last time.”

At that, Tommy finally looks up, his eyes wide. “No, it’s...I mean, I’m sorry too.”

Silence. Adam grits his teeth and looks down. Tommy’s still holding his suitcase, his fingers clenched tight and his knuckles white. “Come on, you probably want to put your stuff away,” Adam says, and turns to head up the stairs, toward the bedrooms.

“You totally don’t have to do this. I’ll understand.” Tommy’s voice is quiet behind him.

Adam closes his eyes and resists the urge to turn around and give Tommy a tight hug. He doesn’t want Tommy to...misinterpret. Tommy probably wouldn’t resist the offer of comfort, but he seems really fragile right now, and Adam doesn’t want him to think... whatever he might think about their relationship. Adam doesn’t want to dwell on it.

He continues down the hall past the bedrooms to the linen closet to get out a towel for Tommy, and when he looks back, Tommy’s still standing in the middle of the hall, stuck between the doorway to the guest bedroom and to Adam’s bedroom. He’s not looking at either one, and he’s not looking at Adam either, and Adam stamps down hard on the urge to invite Tommy into his room. They’ve shared beds on tour; it’s normal.

But it’s not normal anymore. _Fuck_.

Adam leads Tommy into the guest room and puts the folded, fluffy towel on the dresser.

“You can stay as long as you need.” He watches Tommy nod and push his suitcase into the corner, and then they’re both just standing awkwardly in the room. Adam clears his throat. “I, uh... I’m gonna go hop in the shower. You can get settled and... whatever. I’ll see you later.”

He flees the room before Tommy can answer, feeling like a coward but needing a second, just a second to _think._ He goes into his bedroom and shuts the door, falling down onto the bed and burying his face in his hands.

 _Bullshit_ , he thinks. Bullshit that they fucking slept together and Tommy randomly broke up with his girlfriend two weeks later. No way in hell are those events unrelated. Adam digs his fingers into his eyes and sighs. He can’t hear anything through the walls; not Tommy moving his suitcase around, not Tommy leaving the room, not Tommy crying into his pillow about his girlfriend. Nothing.

He only allows himself a moment to sit and wallow in the awkwardness of his situation. He sits up and looks at his reflection in the mirror above the bureau, trying to see what Tommy might see.

He sees his hair in clumps, sticking to his forehead with sweat. He sees soft arms and prominent freckles. He sees a bright pink flush of exertion and the sheen of sweat. Adam pulls his tank up to his face and gives it a cautious sniff.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “No wonder he didn’t want to be near me.” A shower will give him time to think, and give Tommy time to... settle. Rest, maybe. He looks like he needs it.

While he’s scrubbing his hair and letting the water wash the sweat from his body, Adam’s mind drifts to Tommy in the next room over. Adam hopes he’s sleeping--but that sends him into a downward spiral of thoughts that usually ends with his cock in hand. He puts a stop to that right now. Tommy’s counting on him to be a _friend_ , and right now, anything more would feel almost like taking advantage. A betrayal of trust. He very carefully doesn’t think about that night a few weeks ago, how drunk they were, how needy he felt. How Tommy didn’t turn him away, didn’t tell him to stop even once, though Adam must have been hurting him. How he should have.

He wonders what he would do in the same situation, if Tommy came to him right now and kissed him. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to turn him away, no matter what his brain tells him is right.

But he won’t make that first move. He _won_ ’ _t_.

Finished with his shower and now smelling much more human, Adam finger-combs his hair into something resembling an intentional style and bends over the counter to rub some eyeliner under his lashes. He thinks, as he leans back, that he probably shouldn’t have put on the makeup, that it might make Tommy think he’s interrupted some wild night of partying, but Adam can’t bring himself to regret it. He wants to look _right_ for Tommy. He wants to look strong and put together and capable of helping him through this rough patch, and this is the best way Adam knows how.

He paces up and down the hall about four times before finally psyching himself up enough to knock on Tommy’s door. It’s weird to knock in his own house. He can’t ever remember having to do that before.

“Um, Tommy? I didn’t know if you’d eaten yet...we could order something if you want,” he calls through the door.

Tommy opens the door and smiles shyly at him, and Adam feels better than he has in days. “Yeah, I...I guess I didn’t get a chance to eat today.”

Adam grins. “Mexican okay?”

“Always!”

They order way too much food and eat it in the living room, something droning away on the TV that neither of them really pays attention to, and Adam feels almost normal. Eventually, though, the conversation turns back around to the break-up. Of course.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Adam asks, trying to make his voice sound as casual as possible. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, I just--”

“She dumped me,” Tommy says dully. “Kicked me out.”

“Why?”

“She... found out about...” Tommy exhales sharply and falls silent, smiling with a morbid sort of amusement.

“Not about us, right?”

“No,” Tommy says. “It’s not about you, not... not that. She found out about me cheating. She, uh, walked in on me.” Tommy coughs. “With someone.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Adam breathes. “Bet she was pissed.” _I would be_ , he thinks. He decides not to comment on the fact that Tommy was pretty stupid to bring a girl home to the house he shared with his girlfriend.

“Kicked me out so fast I didn’t even have time to put on shoes,” Tommy tells him. “But I was kind of drunk, so... I didn’t think about it until I was four blocks away and my foot was bleeding.”

Adam’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “You could have called me. I would have come.” Anything to get out of that club last night, really.

“I didn’t want to bother you. Mike’s used to me, at least.”

“I could be used to you.” The words are out before Adam can stop them, and he wants to kick himself. “I mean, I am used to you. God knows we’ve spent enough time on a bus together. But what I’m saying is, I could _get_ used to you. Easy. If you stayed.”

“Here? With you.”

“Here, yes. I mean, until you find another... whatever. Apartment, I guess. Another roommate.”

“I don’t want another roommate,” Tommy says, sounding sullen. “I fucked them up too. How do you think Mike got so used to picking my drunk ass up in the middle of the night?”

“Well, you’re welcome here. I honestly don’t mind. I could use the company. And, I mean, we’re gonna be on tour in a couple months anyway. You could just... stay until then. Look for a new place after.”

“Cool,” Tommy says. “Yeah, like, as long as I’m not in the way.”

Adam shakes his head, laughing, and hooks his arm around Tommy’s neck, pulling him sideways into a hug. “Baby, you’re never in the way.” He kisses Tommy’s hair, and it feels soft and clean. Mike must’ve pushed Tommy into the shower this morning. “This’ll be cool. Like, gearing up for tour again. Getting used to each other again.”

Tommy turns his face against Adam’s chest, his nose squashed and wrinkling Adam’s shirt. “I missed you. I don’t like not talking.”

Adam laughs. “You _love_ not talking. Hermit.”

Tommy punches Adam’s side weakly. “You know what I mean. I don’t like you not talking to me. I don’t like... being so apart.”

“Well, you’re stuck with me now.”

They’re quiet for a moment and Tommy relaxes in Adam’s arms. He reaches up and pets Adam’s shirt flat again with the tips of his fingers. Adam concentrates hard on keeping his breathing slow and even. “I don’t, like... want us to be scared of each other, you know? I don’t like that,” Tommy says quietly.

Adam kisses the top of Tommy’s head again and this time it doesn’t feel weird or forced at all. “I’m not scared of you, Tommy Joe.” He’s actually more scared of himself. And he can’t help noticing that Tommy doesn’t answer.

Eventually, Adam says good night and retreats to his bedroom alone. He falls asleep listening to the faint sounds of the TV in the living room, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t reach for Jake in his sleep.

*

Tommy wakes up on the sofa, blinking at the flood of morning sunlight and wondering for a second where he is. Adam’s laugh brings it all back, and he twists around to see Adam grinning down at him and holding two steaming mugs of what is hopefully coffee and not some fancy herbal shit.

“I thought you wanted a place with a bed?” Adam asks playfully, holding out a mug.

Tommy takes it and drinks deep, burning his tongue and not caring. He can’t remember the last time he woke up without a hangover. He feels pretty fucking awesome, actually.

“Sorry, bad habit. Sometimes at home I just pass out with the TV on.” He says it without realizing, and then remembers that it’s not home any more. He doesn’t have a home. Homeless.

Adam must see something telling in his face, because he clucks his tongue and sits down next to Tommy, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Come on, we’re not gonna do that today. Today we’re gonna go shopping. And then we’re gonna come back here and drink wine and watch movies. I have it all planned out.”

Tommy rubs away the sleep in his eyes and smiles at the floor. “That sounds fuckin’ awesome.”

“It totally does. Go on, go get dressed. We’ve got shit to do!”

Adam takes him to store after store and makes him try on everything he touches, and Tommy leaves with new boots and jeans and a completely amazing leather jacket that he’s never taking off again. It’s a little weird for Adam to buy him so much, but when Tommy pulls out his wallet, Adam just raises his eyebrows and gives him this _look_ until Tommy puts it away again, and he really can’t feel guilty after seeing how much fun Adam has dressing him up in progressively tighter and flashier outfits.

Adam falls completely in love with two similar but different necklaces for himself, and he agonizes back and forth over which one to get for ages until Tommy finally rolls his eyes and tells him to just get both. Adam grins down at him and says, “This is why I love you,” and Tommy blushes all the way home.

They have dinner on the couch again, but this time it’s a full meal, with green side dishes that Adam insists on and Tommy doesn’t touch, and gigantic, round glasses of wine. Tommy likes how they look when he swirls the wine and watches it drip down the curved sides of the glass. Adam has the coolest shit. Adam even pulls some candles out of a closet and lights them on the coffee table, smiling at Tommy as he does, almost embarrassed.

“Jake always made fun of me about these.”

“I love ‘em,” Tommy replies. “We’re all, like, classy and shit.”

“Wine and candles,” Adam agrees. “All we need now are flowers.”

“Black ones?”

“Goth realness.”

“I prefer the term ‘vampire’. Vampire realness. Hey, man, you still got those teeth laying around? We should go as vampires again for Halloween. It’s like a tradition now.”

Adam levels a gaze at him over his wine glass. “Seriously? Who do you think I am, Tommy Joe? I have a whole drawer of them upstairs. Had to keep trying different ones to see what I could sing through!”

That sets Tommy off in a giggle fit he can’t recover from. He falls sideways on the couch and Adam pulls Tommy’s legs up and into his lap. His thumb drawing little circles on Tommy’s knee eventually quiets Tommy’s laughter and the giggles taper off until he’s just panting for breath. He lets his head fall against the back of the couch and watches Adam’s face.

“You seem better,” Adam tells him, and Tommy isn’t quite sure what that means. Was he so bad, before?

“Better than what?” he asks.

“You looked tired, before.”

“I was tired.” Tommy thinks that’s not what Adam really means, but Adam’s too nice to dig any deeper, at least to Tommy’s face. “Anyway, you look better too.”

“I _feel_ better. It wasn’t just the break-up, you know, with Jake. Things weren’t good with us for a long time. Ever, maybe. I don’t know.” Adam doesn’t look particularly sad, just thoughtful.

“Maddie really loved me,” Tommy says, and his eyes well up a little. It feels like a confession. “She didn’t do anything wrong. It was all me.”

“Oh, baby...” Adam reaches out and rubs at Tommy’s cheek with a gentle thumb. “It obviously wasn’t right. When it’s really right, you don’t need...you don’t _want_ anyone else.”

Tommy allows the touch for a moment before pulling away from Adam’s hand. He picks up his glass of wine and swallows the rest, barely even tasting it. “Then it’s never been right,” Tommy mutters, and he’s a little ashamed of how utterly sad that makes him. If it’s never been right, then what were all those relationships for? What was he doing with those girls? Why couldn’t he love them enough? “It felt right, at the time,” he admits. “I thought it was right.”

Adam glances away. “It's hard to know. I mean, back when...when Brad and I were together, I thought that was it. I thought that would last forever.”

Tommy bites his lip, but he's curious enough to ask, “What happened? Why didn't it?”

“Apparently it wasn't right for him,” Adam replies stiffly.

Tommy's heart sinks. “Did he...”

“I couldn’t be with him after that,” Adam says.

Tommy scoots down the couch and curls himself around Adam. “I can’t imagine anyone doing that to you.” Adam wraps his arm around Tommy’s back and Tommy smiles up at him. “I don’t see how anyone could think you aren’t enough.”

Adam breaks into a grin. “You’re so sweet to me, baby.”

“I love you, you know,” Tommy says. “You’re like, the best person in my life.”

Adam doesn’t answer, just looks overwhelmed, and it’s a little embarrassing to lay it all out like that, but not wholly unexpected that Adam wouldn’t feel the same. Of course Tommy’s not the best person in Adam’s life. He knew that already. But it hurts a little to have the confirmation.

They sit together for only a little while longer before Tommy makes his excuses and retreats to his guest room. The next day, Adam lets him sleep in. Tommy wakes up to the sound of Adam’s voice--it sounds like he’s on the phone with someone important. Maybe his manager, or a producer. Somebody famous, even. Tommy rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, letting the low murmur wash over him.

Tommy spends the day in front of the TV. Adam doesn’t have anywhere to go, but he does have calls and emails to answer, so Tommy leaves him alone. He drifts in and out, watching a show but zoning out and tuning back in for the next one. He’s always awful at keeping track of time, but with nothing to tether him, he feels even more adrift.

“You hungry?” Adam calls suddenly. Tommy jolts awake and sits up straight, taking stock of his body. He’s not really hungry, but when he looks at the clock he sees it’s well past six and he hasn’t eaten anything since the fruit salad Adam pushed on him this morning. But if Adam’s asking, it means _he_ ’ _s_ hungry.

“Sure, what do you want?” Tommy calls back.

Adam ends up ordering Chinese food, because, he says, it looks healthier than it actually is, and it’s all about the appearance. Tommy laughs and makes room for Adam on the couch amongst the pillows and blanket, and he’s pleased when Adam cuddles up right next to him.

It feels easy, _familiar_ , and Tommy relaxes into Adam’s warmth without a second thought. Adam’s right, this is sort of like being on tour again, living right up in each other’s space. Adam eats with one hand and draws his fingers through Tommy’s hair with the other, over and over, and eventually Tommy is ignoring his food entirely, lost in the calming petting sensation.

Adam nudges him. “Hey. Your food’s gonna get cold.”

“Don’t care. Keep doin’ that,” Tommy says. Any tension remaining in his body slips away until Tommy’s dozing against Adam’s shoulder. They watch the end of a movie and sit through the next one--at least, Adam does. Tommy falls asleep within the first ten minutes.

Adam leaves the next morning for a meeting, before Tommy’s even really awake, and he comes home annoyed and grumbling about Chad. Tommy’s only met the guy a handful of times, but he totally understands Adam’s frustration. Tommy sits Adam down at the kitchen table and fixes him a bowl of spaghetti, which Adam resists because of carbs but Tommy ignores him.

“It’ll make you feel better,” he says. “Stop with that juice fast and salad shit. You gotta have _food_. Like, _real_ food.”

“Says the boy who’s thin as a rail,” Adam grumbles, but he digs in anyway, and Tommy sits down across from him, smiling. “You’re not hungry?”

“I ate before,” Tommy says, then steals a bite of Adam’s pasta.

Adam gives him a skeptical look. Then he leans way back in his chair and pulls another fork out of the silverware drawer. “Come here, share. I can’t eat all this anyway.”

Tommy thinks about arguing, but honestly, it does look good. He makes a pretty rad bowl of pasta. He moves his chair around next to Adam’s and takes a bite, and he can’t help wondering what’ll happen if they start eating the same strand at once, if it’ll end in a kiss like they’re animated dogs or some shit. It’s a ridiculous thought, but then again, Disney moments seem to follow Adam around.

“Remember the first show on Glam Nation?” Tommy asks, licking tomato sauce off his fingers.

Adam laughs. “God, it seems so long ago now. I was so nervous I thought I was gonna puke.”

“I’m pretty sure there was glitter somewhere on my body for the next six months after that.” Tommy wrinkles his nose. “It could still be there, hiding. Like herpes, man.”

“Tommy! Glitter is not like herpes. Shut your blasphemous mouth.”

“Blasphemy is kind of my thing.”

Reminiscing about the early days of touring eats up the next three hours, and at some point Adam starts telling Tommy about the things he has planned for the upcoming tour. Dozens of costume ideas, complex stage designs, troupes of dancers -- he’s even pushing for pyrotechnics. Tommy has to laugh. Adam always was one to plan big. Eventually, the wine comes out again, and they end up sitting in front of the fireplace, drinking and talking about the past and the future.

“And you’ll be there with me, right, Tommy?” Adam says, fluffing up the blanket over their laps. “Right there in the spotlight at the front of the stage.”

“It’s your spotlight,” Tommy tells him. “But that’s the only place I want to be. On a stage with you.”

“I’ve had enough of the spotlight for a while,” Adam says quietly. Tommy turns to him, sees him staring into the fire.

“What happened this morning?”

“Interviews. People talking shit. Meeting with Chad. It was a mess. I’m just... glad to be done. Glad to be here with you.”

“Don’t think about it,” Tommy says firmly. “It’ll be better soon.”

“Everyone keeps asking me about Jake, and what happened between--”

Tommy puts his hand over Adam’s mouth. “Don’t think about it right now.”

Adam stares at him for a second, eyes wide. Then he touches Tommy’s wrist and gently pulls his hand away. “Did you just shut me up?”

“Sometimes you need it,” Tommy says, shrugging.

Adam doesn’t hesitate, just closes his eyes, leans down, and kisses him. Tommy’s shocked into stillness, afraid to move, afraid to lose the gentle press of Adam’s lips against his own. Adam pulls away after a long moment, and when Tommy manages to open his eyes, Adam doesn’t look sorry or upset at all, just happy. Tommy smiles back at him and lets himself feel happy too.

“You’re exactly what I needed, Tommy,” Adam says.

Tommy bites his lip. He thinks maybe Adam is exactly what he needed, too, but he can’t say it. He doesn’t know how Adam just says these things, like they’re easy, like they don’t get all choked up in his throat. Instead, he reaches out and slides his hand into Adam’s where it’s resting on the blanket, squeezing tight and hoping Adam knows what it means.

Adam doesn’t kiss him again, but he does keep touching Tommy, leaning against him, petting him, until Tommy’s practically falling asleep on his shoulder, breathing slow and even, eyes closed.

“Tommy, baby, come on. Bedtime.”

“‘m comfy here though,” Tommy says, not opening his eyes, and Adam laughs softly.

“You’ll be comfier in your bed.”

He wants to argue. Nothing is comfier than Adam. But Adam’s shifting, standing, pulling him to his feet, and Tommy’s too tired to resist. Adam guides Tommy, zombie-like, to the bedroom and arranges him on the bed with his head on the pillow and the blanket tucked in around his body. Tommy sighs happily, half-asleep, and reaches for Adam’s hand.

“Sleep with me,” he murmurs.

A long moment passes, and it’s tense somehow. It wakes Tommy up a little. He realizes what he said, what Adam must be thinking. He lets go of Adam’s hand and burrows under the blanket, feigning sleep.

“Not tonight, Tommy,” Adam whispers. Tommy doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t move until he hears Adam’s footsteps leave the room and the door click closed. He opens his eyes and stares at the door for a long, long time. His heart is racing, and the sleep that had seemed inevitable only moments ago is a distant memory now. Adam’s words hang in the air, and Tommy turns them over and over in his mind, and lets himself hope. Just a little bit.

*

Adam wakes up with a hard-on and a lagging memory. He gets up and goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth. And then, staring at himself in the mirror, he remembers kissing Tommy. His reflection looks just as shocked as he feels. Tommy is straight and beautiful and _straight,_ and his friend, and he’s not for kissing in front of fireplaces. Adam takes a deep breath and rubs his hands over his face. It was the wine, obviously. They just need to stop getting drunk together. Easy.

He goes downstairs and heads for his treadmill, hoping to burn off the weird energy left over from last night. Running always gives him time to think, but he’s not sure that’s what he needs today. He tries to clear his mind instead, focus on everything _but_ Tommy. He has an album to promote, and a tour coming up. It’s not like there’s nothing else to think about. He starts making lists of things he has to do before the tour, then gets tripped up by one item: _Book touring band_.

Tommy, obviously. He needs Tommy with him now more than ever, as long as they can move past this... strangeness. Whatever it is. He curses and turns the speed up to a sprint, forcing himself to think only about his body, about pushing himself harder.

He goes until he’s gasping for breath, his legs shaking and his sides aching and his heart racing. When he can’t run another second, he slows the treadmill to a crawl and walks until he can hear himself think over his heartbeat again. Then he slides off the belt and onto the floor, drenched with sweat and heading into the kitchen in search of water.

Tommy shuffles in while he’s still drinking, and Adam catches just a glimpse of him around the plastic of his water bottle--plaid pajama pants and one of Adam’s oldest and biggest t-shirts, sleep-ruffled hair and stocking feet. He’s rubbing at his eyes sleepily, and Adam laughs to himself and almost chokes on his water. He looks like the world’s biggest three-year-old.

“Morning,” Adam says, and Tommy grunts in reply. Adam wonders if he’s hungover. He just seems sleepy, though. Maybe a little uncomfortable, but Adam can’t blame him for that. Not after last night.

Tommy moves into the kitchen, heading for the coffeemaker, so Adam steps closer to the fridge. But Tommy reaches for the fridge and bumps Adam’s side, and he looks surprised about it too, like he didn’t even see Adam there. Adam intentionally blocks his second attempt at opening the fridge, and stands there until Tommy looks up at him.

“Can I get some water?” Tommy asks, his voice gravelly.

“You look like you could use some coffee,” Adam replies, but hands over his water bottle. Tommy takes it and holds it close to his face, even when he’s not drinking. “Let me get you a mug,” Adam offers, and Tommy nods.

They both move to the left and then to the right, and Tommy laughs in a high-pitched, almost hysterical way. Adam takes him by the arm and leads him to the other side of the island, sits him down on one of the bar stools, so he won’t get in the way again while Adam’s fixing him something to drink. Tommy rests his elbows on the counter and holds Adam’s water bottle with both hands. He’s watching Adam intently now, and Adam can feel his gaze even when he turns his back.

Adam gets the coffee started and then stays leaning against the counter, reaching for a paper towel and dabbing at his face and neck. He’s so sweaty and gross, and he’s already thinking about how amazing the shower is gonna feel.

“Do you do that every morning? Work out?” Tommy asks, sounding almost disgusted, like he can’t imagine a normal human being doing such a thing. It’s completely unfair that Tommy can be so thin with no effort at all.

Adam ducks his head down and turns to look at Tommy over his shoulder, smiling. “Not every morning. Most. I think I’m gonna miss it when we’re on tour. It’s hard to work out on a bus.”

“The bus is an awesome excuse to not work out, I think.”

Adam laughs because Tommy expects him to, but the joke kind of falls flat and Adam doesn’t know what to say in response. They both fall silent and watch the steady drip of the coffeemaker. Tommy sighs and rests his chin on his hand.

Adam can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound awkward or weird or somehow sexual, and when the coffee finishes he jumps at the distraction, going through each step slowly and deliberately. He turns and presents the mug to Tommy, watches him take a sip like he’s afraid he won’t like it. As if he hasn’t watched Tommy fix his coffee the past three mornings, and the five years before that. As if he doesn’t know how he takes it.

Tommy sets the mug down and licks his lips, and Adam looks away quickly, but not before the idea hits him, the idea that he could lean forward and kiss the heat off Tommy’s lips right now and Tommy probably wouldn’t stop him. He could taste the coffee on Tommy’s breath. He suddenly craves that more than the coffee in his own mug.

He glances up at Tommy and catches Tommy looking at him. Those brown eyes flicker away quickly, and Tommy’s hand comes up, curled into a fist, brushing his hair out of his face with one knuckle. It falls back in the next instant, and Adam wants to reach out, tuck it back so it will stay.

Instead, he stands and stretches and drains the rest of his coffee in one scalding go. “I need to get in the shower before I get cold.” He doesn’t mean it as an invitation, but it sort of sounds like one.

As he’s making his exit, Tommy calls after him. “Are you doing anything today?” He sounds hopeful, and Adam isn’t sure if Tommy wants to be left alone, or if he wants to spend the day with Adam. He selfishly hopes it’s the latter.

“No,” Adam says without turning around. “I’m just... here.” He glances back over his shoulder quickly, needing to see Tommy’s reaction.

Tommy smiles, just a little bit. “Awesome.”

Adam very deliberately doesn’t kiss Tommy again after showering, when he’s standing in the bathroom trying out a new eyeliner and Tommy comes in, poking around him, stealing a bottle of nail polish and meeting Adam’s eyes only for a second in the mirror before disappearing again.

He doesn’t kiss him when he hears music coming from the guest room, a chord progression that he knows repeated over and over and over, a little smoother each time. It’s a song from the new album, one they’ll be playing for the first time on tour. This is the first time he’s heard Tommy play it, and he pauses outside the door for just a moment, listening, imagining Tommy sitting cross-legged on the bed, guitar practically dwarfing him where it’s slung across his lap. He decides against going in. He stands in the hall and listens to Tommy practice for a few minutes instead, then retreats to his own room, leaving the door open so he can hear the music.

Tommy comes scurrying over to him sometime in the afternoon, grinning hugely and brandishing his phone, exclaiming over the new picture of Riff that Scarlett’s texted him. Adam’s sure she’s sent it to him, too, but he looks and smiles and agrees with Tommy’s declaration that Riff is the cutest kid he’s ever seen. Tommy looks back down at his phone with a sweet smile on his face and warmth in his eyes, and it’s all Adam can do not to pull him into his arms and kiss him just as sweetly.

Adam’s always been the type to just eat when he’s hungry, but he rather likes this schedule of meals that comes with sharing a house with someone. It reminds him of tour, when they would all go out to a restaurant in a big group, or troop down to the hotel dining area in the morning for breakfast. He calls Tommy into the kitchen and announces his intention of cooking something.

“We have to use the kitchen,” he explains. “Once we’re on tour it’s back to fast food and room service.”

“I like room service,” Tommy says.

“Because you can’t cook. But tonight, we’re going to.”

Tommy gives him a doubtful look, and it feels so natural to reach over the counter and nudge Tommy’s shoulder. It makes Tommy grin, and that always makes Adam smile as well. It feels like Tommy is more than just Adam’s friend, he realizes, and quickly busies himself with finding a cutting board and knife. Tommy’s replacing the void in Adam’s life that Jake left, and that all the other boyfriends left when those relationships ended. They haven’t discussed it, and Adam firmly thinks they shouldn’t, because he doesn’t want whatever comfortable closeness they have between them to dissolve. Relationships are trouble. He thinks he’s starting to learn that, maybe. Finally.

He sets out the utensils and motions for Tommy to come over. “All right, you’re in charge of the chopping, and I’ll be in charge of the actual cooking.”

“What,” Tommy scoffs, “you don’t trust me with _real_ cooking?”

“I’m giving you a knife, aren’t I?”

Tommy waves the knife at Adam. “You gonna give me something to chop, or should I just start on my fingers?”

Adam lays his hands over Tommy’s protectively, laughing. “Please don’t, I need these fingers.” Tommy looks up at him, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips. “I need you to _play_ for me,” Adam amends. “I need you with me on tour this year.”

Tommy beams at him, looking full to the brim with happiness, and Adam actually catches himself leaning down, so close, so close to kissing him. He plants a smacking kiss on Tommy’s cheek instead, covers it with a smile. When he moves away to get vegetables out of the fridge, Tommy stays right there at the counter, smiling, watching Adam, content. He pulls out the things he needs and gives them to Tommy with instructions to chop everything into bite-sized chunks, and he can’t help but linger for a moment and watch Tommy’s fingers curl around the pepper and how carefully he holds the knife.

They dump everything into a pan for Adam to stir-fry with chicken strips, and Tommy sits at the counter with his arms crossed and his chin resting on his wrists, watching. Adam keeps turning around to look at him, and each time he looks, Tommy’s smiling. It’s such a nice change from what brought Tommy here.

“You should do that more often,” he says offhandedly.

“Do what?”

“Smile. I like it.”

“Oh, do you?” Tommy asks, his voice heavy with innuendo that Adam doesn’t get until he turns and sees Tommy’s expression. He laughs and nods, because yes, he likes whatever Tommy does with his mouth. He almost says so, but he stops, suddenly afraid that Tommy will take it the wrong way. He doesn’t want to make Tommy uncomfortable, not now when things are going so well. He doesn’t want to remind Tommy of that night, of how badly Adam fucked up.

They eat, and Adam’s actually pretty proud of himself--his cooking isn’t half bad. He says as much to Tommy, but Tommy’s mouth is too full to respond, and Adam grins. It’s good to see Tommy eating, as skinny as he is, and it’s even better to see him enjoying something Adam’s made like this. He thinks he could get used to this. Like, _really_ used to it.

It’s easy to let those thoughts take over after a few drinks -- Adam hadn’t meant to drink tonight, he really hadn’t, determined to keep his head. But Tommy was already handing him a glass before he’d had a chance to make his intentions known, smiling as he sipped at his own drink, and Adam’s never been good at turning down anything Tommy was offering. When they move to the couch after dinner, Adam’s head is buzzing nicely, and Tommy sits right next to him, burrowing under Adam’s arm.

“Today turned out all right,” Adam murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Started out weird, but it’s okay now.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about making it weird this morning. I just... wasn’t sure. Thinking too much, you know how it is.”

Tommy noses up under Adam’s jaw, and Adam doesn’t think twice about it. Tommy loves cuddling. It’s normal. Even when he kisses Adam’s cheek, that’s normal too.

“We’re friends,” Adam says. “I’m glad we can... be friends. Like we are. It’s the whole overthinking thing, it gets me all confused. I start thinking I messed it up, or I don’t know how you feel about... everything, and...”

Tommy pushes himself up and kisses Adam square on the mouth. It’s a chaste kiss, short and sweet, but it makes Adam’s heart speed up. He’s been thinking about this all fucking _day_.

“So stop thinking,” Tommy tells him quietly. Adam nods and slides a hand up to the back of Tommy’s neck, pulls him in for another kiss. Longer this time, but still innocent. Still friendly.

“We kiss all the time,” Adam whispers. “We can do this, can’t we? We can be friends that kiss.”

Tommy nods before Adam even finishes speaking. “Yeah, yes.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. We’re just friends.”

“Okay.” Tommy leans in again, and this time he opens his mouth, inviting Adam’s tongue to play. Adam doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t feel like crossing a line anymore, and really, it feels too good for Adam to even care if it did.

His body knows how to do this, and it’s a relief to stop thinking, to slide a hand into Tommy’s hair and angle his face just right, to lick into his mouth slow and warm and deep. Tommy goes easy for Adam, as he always has, and it sends a shiver of excitement through Adam to feel that unhesitating acquiescence, the way Tommy lets him press, lets him _take._ He moans softly into Tommy’s mouth and pulls a knee up under himself on the couch, wanting to lay Tommy out on his back and crawl on top of him, or pull Tommy over to straddle his lap, or--but he holds himself back, just keeps kissing. Kissing is awesome. He loves kissing. He can ignore the rest of his body. He has before.

Adam pulls back to catch his breath, but his hands don’t seem to want to stop touching, lingering in Tommy’s hair, on his face. Tommy looks up at Adam and presses into the touch, rubbing his cheek into Adam’s palm, and Adam shivers again.

“Fuck, Tommy, you can’t just _do_ that,” Adam half-whispers.

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “What?”

Adam takes a shuddering breath and pulls his hands back to himself. “Make me...want. Things.”

Tommy’s silent for a long moment, looking down, biting his lip. Adam wants to bite it for him and lick it better, angry red marks left behind. He can hardly make out the words when Tommy speaks again. “What do you want, Adam?”

“Things you don’t.” He’s sure of that, if nothing else. Tommy’s reaction to their last... _incident_ had made that clear enough. Adam doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the wince of pain on Tommy’s face, or the uncharacteristic sharpness of his words. That’s not the Tommy he knows. _Wants._

He doesn’t know what he expects Tommy to say. _Something._ Instead, Tommy reaches up and puts his arms around Adam’s neck and kisses him again, hard and desperate, almost painful, and Adam can’t breathe, can’t close his eyes, can’t even think. He feels strung too tight, shaking with everything he’s determined not to let himself do.

Tommy shifts and buries his face in Adam’s neck, and whispers into his skin. “You don’t know what I want, Adam. You...I don’t...”

Tommy’s lips are brushing against his skin, and his breath is warm and rushed, and Adam looks up toward the ceiling with wide, desperate eyes, a silent plea into the ether. “So tell me,” he says.

Tommy doesn’t say anything. He crawls up over Adam’s lap, straddling him, and wraps both arms tight around Adam’s neck so Adam can’t push him off. Tommy kisses him, so fast and hard Adam feels like Tommy is breaking, coming apart at the seams. In between these breathless kisses he hears Tommy murmuring, and it takes him a second to tune into the words.

“I want this,” he hears. “Please, I want it, I do...”

Adam groans. He wants to believe, he does, but... “You said that last time, too.”

Tommy freezes, but he doesn’t let go, and when he answers he sounds serious. “I didn’t know.”

“And you do now?”

Tommy pulls back and looks Adam right in the eye. It’s strange, intense-- _unfamiliar_ , almost, and it makes Tommy’s words sound important. Honest. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Adam’s hesitant to push forward after Tommy’s words, _I think_. But the open, raw expression on Tommy’s face tips him past his uncertainty. Tommy might not be able to say what he wants, but it’s right there, clear on his face.

Adam gets his hands under Tommy’s ass and stands up, lifting Tommy with him, and Tommy’s fingers dig into Adam’s shoulders through his thin t-shirt. Adam takes a few halting steps toward the stairs, intending to take Tommy all the way up to his bed, but Tommy kisses him again and Adam gets sidetracked, pushes Tommy hard against the wall to take some of his weight so Adam can focus on the kiss. He lets Tommy slide down, and Tommy seems reluctant to stand on his own feet again, but Adam needs his hands in Tommy’s hair. He needs to pull, he needs to angle Tommy just right. Tommy moans against him and sinks lower, and Adam follows him down, leaning over him and crowding him against the wall in an effort to stay upright.

For a second, Adam almost gives up on the stairs and imagines staying right here, pulling his clothes off and pushing Tommy right up onto the wall, getting those legs around his waist again...and fuck, his cock likes that idea, hips pressing harder into Tommy’s body. But he forces himself to take a step back and shakes his head, laughing a little at himself. He thinks about the cold deck chairs and waking up covered in dew. They couldn’t even make it inside last time. He needs this to be better.

Tommy gives him a confused look. “What?”

Adam pins Tommy with a heated stare. “I want you in my bed.”

He takes Tommy’s hand and pulls him to the stairs, and Tommy stumbles a little at the sudden rush, but he recovers quickly and he never lets go, never slides free of Adam’s grasp. Adam leads him all the way to his bedroom and then turns around, catching Tommy by his arms and holding him still for another thorough kiss. Tommy feels weak in his arms and it makes Adam smile.

“I can feel how much you want this,” he murmurs, and Tommy shivers under his touch, just as responsive as Adam remembers. He walks backwards slowly, pulling Tommy toward the bed, and they’re kissing again the second they hit the mattress, hardly able to keep away from each other now that they don’t have to. But something about being here, in the bed Adam’s slept in alone ever since that last night with Jake...it makes Adam want to slow down, take his time. Tommy deserves better than a rushed, drunken fuck Adam hardly remembers.

He pulls away, pushes himself up on his hands to let Tommy catch his breath under him, and Tommy groans. “No, please, come on,” he says. Adam shakes his head.

“I’m right here, baby. Not gonna hurt you this time. Never want to hurt you.”

Tommy relaxes at that, smiles up at Adam with his arms spread wide on the bed.

“Want to see you,” Adam tells him. “Want you naked. Come on.”

Adam sits up and Tommy follows his lead; their shirts get tossed to the floor and Tommy falls back to the bed, lifting his hips helpfully so Adam can pull off his sweatpants. He gets them all the way off Tommy’s socked feet, laughs as he yanks off the socks as well, and then sits up again to see Tommy spread out before him, naked and waiting.

Tommy’s pale against the dark sheets, pale and small and _soft_. Adam lets himself touch, his hands stroking all the way up Tommy’s legs, circling the points of hipbones, pressing into the slight curve of his waist. He pets over Tommy’s stomach, and when Tommy makes a face and squirms under him, Adam just smiles and lets his hand linger, fingers spread over Tommy’s soft little belly. He can’t believe how tiny Tommy feels under him, like he could hold him down with just one hand like this, or pick him up. He skates his nails up over Tommy’s ribs, laughing when Tommy giggles, and opens his palms over Tommy’s soft underarms, stretching his arms up over his head until they can’t go any higher and linking their fingers together at the end. The position leaves their faces close together, and Adam kisses Tommy’s open, panting mouth softly and whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

He watches Tommy’s forehead wrinkle, and Tommy asks, “Will you fuck me now?”

“Not yet,” Adam tells him. “Want to taste you first. Wanna get my mouth on that gorgeous fucking cock.” He kisses Tommy again when Tommy gasps, stealing the breath from his lips, then slides back down and kneels in the space between Tommy’s legs.

He takes his time, kissing Tommy’s belly, his hips, the soft, hairless skin of his inner thighs. It’s warm in the room, but goosebumps spring up under his touch, and he can feel the tension in Tommy’s muscles, the want and the anticipation. He glances up, all the way up the line of Tommy’s body.

“Relax, baby, we’ll get there,” Adam says, and Tommy stares down at him and whines low in his throat. But he’s smiling through it, and Adam smiles back--he knows this game, and he knows he’s good at it.

Tommy’s cock is hard, curving up against his belly and leaking precome, and Adam braces his hands on Tommy’s hips and leans down and _licks_ , a broad wet stripe with the flat of his tongue all the way up the length.

“Oh fuck yes,” Tommy gasps, arching up toward Adam, his body begging for more.

“Yeah? Just like that?” Adam asks, teasing. He doesn’t give Tommy a chance to answer, just leans down again and sucks Tommy’s cock into his mouth, no hands, just lips and tongue and well-earned skill. He’s always loved doing this, the messy rush of it and the power trip, and Tommy just lets himself _go_ , lets Adam take him apart with his tongue.

Adam feels a slight touch against his cheek, and when he opens his eyes he sees Tommy’s hands hovering in midair, fingers opening and closing like they’re looking for something to hang on to. He pulls back just for a moment and licks his lips.

“You can grab my hair if you want. I don’t mind.”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but he looks unsure, and his hands don’t move. Adam just smirks and holds Tommy’s gaze and lets his tongue play over Tommy’s slit, lapping up the viscous bitterness there as it comes. And it does the trick, Tommy twisting so hard he nearly wrenches himself out of Adam’s grip. In the next moment, long fingers thread through Adam’s hair, not guiding, just hanging on, and Adam closes his eyes and does his best to give Tommy a reason to _pull._

Adam stops himself just before Tommy comes, sitting up and wiping a hand across his mouth and stroking Tommy’s shaking legs, up and down in a slow, calming rhythm. Tommy’s panting, and he looks at Adam with desperate eyes and begs.

“ _Please_ , fuck, I need to, Adam, I’m almost fucking...just...come on, come on, please don’t stop...”

Adam reaches out and lays one still hand over Tommy’s cock, just to feel it twitch. “I know, baby, I know. It’s okay. Trust me. Gonna make it so good for you, I promise.”

He works the zipper on his jeans and strips them off quickly with his underwear, then stretches out on his side, gathering Tommy up in his arms and pulling him in close, fitting the curves of their bodies together. His cock is pressed perfectly up against Tommy’s ass, but Adam makes himself ignore it for the moment. He focuses on other things instead: his hands as they stroke up and down, petting Tommy’s chest. His chest pressed along Tommy’s back, all that bare skin. His nose buried in Tommy’s hair. He smells like Adam’s shampoo, and the thought makes Adam hold Tommy tighter and bite gently into his neck.

“Mine,” he murmurs, not thinking, regretting it a second later.

But Tommy just presses back harder into Adam’s body, and makes a happy, contented sound, almost a hum. He reaches down to grab his neglected cock, and Adam follows him, covering Tommy’s hand with his own and stroking with entwined fingers. When Adam feels as though Tommy is on the cusp again, he pulls their hands away, much to Tommy’s disappointment. He guides Tommy’s hand behind him, to Adam’s hip, and whispers to him to hold on, grab him as tight as he needs.

Adam stretches over Tommy and squirts some lube into his hand from the pump-top bottle on his nightstand, and now Tommy knows what’s coming, and he moans loudly. Adam laughs and sucks a kiss on the back of Tommy’s neck.

“You like that, baby? You want it?”

“Yeah, fuck, I want you in me,” Tommy says, shifting restlessly and pushing himself back against Adam.

Adam brings his hand down to Tommy’s ass and rubs his fingers over his asshole, smearing the lube around and getting Tommy used to his touch. Tommy doesn’t seem to need the slow teasing, but his eagerness just makes Adam want to slow things down even more, to draw it out and make Tommy truly desperate. When he finally presses in, just a bit, he can _feel_ the hitch in Tommy’s breathing, and he can’t stop himself from whispering in Tommy’s ear, talking him through it.

“That’s right, baby, fuck, you take it so good...want you to feel me.” Tommy moans, and Adam presses in deeper, listening to the pitch of it change as he does. “Feel good?”

“So good, Adam, fucking missed this, wanted it...”

“You want more?”

“Want it all, please, please...”

At that, Adam has to close his eyes, has to pause and imagine spending a whole night opening Tommy up until he can take everything, Adam’s whole hand pressing inside him. He’s done it before, once or twice, and god, it’s amazing, being able to make someone come with just the tiny twitch of a knuckle. But not tonight. Tonight is about other things. More important things.

He spends another few moments opening Tommy up, playing around his asshole with one, two, and finally three fingers, stretching him until the only word coming out of his mouth is “please”, and only then does he move his hand and let himself feel the anticipation. He reaches over Tommy again, this time going for a condom, and grinds his cock hard against Tommy’s ass.

“You want it?” he asks, and Tommy doesn’t even wait until the question is out before nodding his head frantically. “All right, all right, settle now.”

He lays a hand on Tommy’s hip to calm him, then pulls on the condom and lines up his cock. Tommy’s arm is stretched out in front of him, clenching around a handful of sheets; Adam takes him by the wrist, guides Tommy’s hand down to his knee, and gives Tommy a soft kiss on the back of his neck.

“Hold on here,” he says, and Tommy pulls his knee higher, putting himself on display for Adam. “That’s it, baby, that’s right,” Adam breathes, almost overwhelmed by the sight. He has Tommy spread open and waiting for him, exactly like one of his fantasies. He sucks in a deep breath and curls forward, resting his forehead against the nape of Tommy’s neck, and holds onto Tommy’s hip while he pushes his cock in.

Adam loses the sound of Tommy’s groan of satisfaction under his own much louder moan. He lifts his head and occupies his mouth with Tommy’s neck and shoulders, biting and sucking gently until there are pink marks all over Tommy’s pale skin and Tommy is squirming back and forth on the bed, looking for friction, movement, _something_. Adam grabs Tommy’s hand, laces their fingers together around Tommy’s thigh as they had been around his cock. He doesn’t want Tommy coming yet.

“Wait for me, Tommy,” he growls into Tommy’s ear, pulling the pierced shell into his mouth. The earrings taste sharp but Tommy’s skin around them feels hot and sweet. He bites, gently, sucking the earrings against his tongue, and Tommy cries out.

“Adam, please, Adam,” he whimpers, and Adam can feel Tommy’s hand twitching beneath his own, desperate to reach for his cock.

Adam tries to keep up his slow, rolling pace, but the feel of Tommy writhing and moaning against him isn’t working in his favor. He finally reaches for Tommy’s cock, closing his fist around him before Tommy can even force his hand to move in that direction and jacking him off quick and steady, a never-ceasing build to the finish. Tommy comes with another loud cry, clenching around Adam and slapping an open palm to the bundle of wrinkled sheets beneath him, and then he turns his face into the pillow. Adam can hear him breathing hard through his teeth, and the tips of his ears and the back of his neck are flushed so red. His skin tastes like fire on Adam’s tongue.

Adam wipes his hand on Tommy’s belly, smearing the come until his hand is somewhat dry, enough for him to grasp Tommy’s hip again and push him all the way over onto his stomach. Adam follows him, positioning his knees between Tommy’s thighs and propping himself up on his elbow, giving himself more leverage to quicken his pace.

Tommy’s still panting under him, but his body is loose and relaxed, his arms and legs sprawled open and rocking with Adam’s thrusts. He’s quiet now, too, and Adam sort of misses his desperate pleas. He fits his teeth around the junction of Tommy’s neck and shoulder and bites down hard, and oh, there it is, there’s Tommy’s high-pitched cry again.

“Baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Adam tells him, “so good for me. So fucking good.”

“Adam,” Tommy moans. “Fuck, fuck, Adam, let me feel you, come on. Please.”

Tommy is so slick now, so loose, and finally, Adam lets himself go, lets his hips really _fuck_ like they’ve been wanting to for ages. He looks down and watches, watches himself disappearing into Tommy’s body, stretching him so wide, so easy, and oh god, he’s so fucking close. One hand goes to Tommy’s back, right between the shoulder blades, pushing Tommy down into the bed, and the other pulls at his hip, angling him just right for Adam to go fast and deep, over and over and over until he can’t hold back any more.

The new angle pushes another low moan out of Tommy, and one of his hands goes to his pillow, clawing weakly and curling into a loose fist. He turns his head to the side and Adam can finally see his profile, see the wide spread of his lip as he pants for air and the dark fan of his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

Adam watches Tommy’s face, pressed deeper into the pillow with every thrust, until he _can_ ’ _t_ , until he’s coming, eyes shut tight and head thrown back and fingernails digging hard into Tommy’s skin, hips flush against Tommy’s ass and cock buried deep. He holds himself up as long as he can, but his arms are shaking and all his energy seems to have flooded out of him with his orgasm, and he slumps down right on top of Tommy, just for a moment, just until his breath comes back.

Adam listens to the quick, sharp sounds of Tommy breathing; he can feel Tommy’s chest expanding beneath him, his bony shoulder blades poking into Adam’s skin as Tommy shifts his arms around to a more comfortable position, but in a way that Adam doesn’t really mind. He likes feeling Tommy so close to him. And then he realizes why Tommy’s breathing hasn’t slowed, and he pushes himself back up on his elbows.

“Shit, sorry. Fuck. Didn’t mean to--”

“No,” Tommy cuts in, “I liked it.” He doesn’t look at Adam as he says so, just closes his eyes and nuzzles the pillow under his cheek. “Stay, please?”

“I’m squishing you,” Adam protests, and pushes himself all the way up, pulling out of Tommy and shifting to sit back on his heels, ignoring Tommy’s incoherent mumbling. Tommy doesn’t move off his stomach, even though Adam knows he usually sleeps on his side, and this time his breathing does slow and even out as he starts to doze.

Adam bends down and kisses Tommy’s shoulder, careful to keep his weight off Tommy this time. “I’ll be right back, Tommy.”

In the bathroom, Adam gets rid of the condom and cleans himself up with a damp washcloth. He wets it again and wrings it out for Tommy, but when he gets back to the bed, Tommy’s fast asleep. Adam nudges his arm experimentally but Tommy doesn’t wake. Adam slowly, carefully rolls Tommy over onto his back so he can wipe up the mess on Tommy’s stomach, and then the lube smeared between his legs, and Tommy moans quietly, stirring a little in his sleep. Adam slides into bed beside him and pulls a blanket up over their bodies, tucking it all the way up under Tommy’s chin because Adam knows he gets cold.

He knows so much about Tommy. All the little things, like how he takes his coffee and how he likes to sleep. Adam wonders wildly how he could’ve overlooked something like this--something like _sex_. Tommy’s never...well. That’s not entirely true. Tommy’s given him lots of hints, lots of signals, but Adam always assumed that was part of the show, a little bit of Tommy’s stage persona bleeding over into the everyday. It happens to him, too, sometimes. It’s not like Tommy has ever come out and said it before.

Now, though...Adam thinks back sleepily through the mess of Tommy’s words, thinks about how he’d said he _missed_ this. Adam shakes his head and stares down at Tommy’s sleeping face. As long as Adam’s known him, he doesn’t think he’ll ever fully understand what’s going on in Tommy’s head. He would have thought Tommy would never want Adam to touch him again after the drunken wreck that was their first time. But apparently he would have been wrong.

He reaches out and lets his fingers play gently through Tommy’s hair where it’s fanned out on the pillow. It’s weird...he’s fantasized about Tommy before, sure, but he’s never thought about being _with_ him. For real. Tommy’s not a relationship guy. But...Adam takes a breath and glances at Tommy’s closed eyes, and wonders if maybe that’s because Tommy hasn’t been looking for the right kind of relationship. Maybe pretty, petite girls aren’t Tommy’s type after all.

Adam flops back onto his own pillow and thinks about the past few days, about how easily Tommy’s fit into his life, and for the first time, he lets himself imagine it. He thinks about what it would be like to come home every day and find Tommy waiting for him. He thinks about being on tour again, sharing that big bed with Tommy, sharing hotel rooms and room service breakfasts. Kissing backstage because it _means_ something instead of onstage for strangers.

He wishes Tommy was awake. Or that he could read his mind. He’s pretty sure Tommy wants to do this again...but maybe he doesn’t want anyone else to know about it. Adam takes a shaking breath. He can’t do that. He can’t have a relationship entirely behind closed doors. He’s tried, and it feels _wrong_ , like lying, like denying part of who he is, and he refuses to go back to that. But if Tommy would be open, if he was willing... They could do this. Adam could do this.

He’ll be better than he was before. He’ll make up for the hurt he caused Tommy. And he’ll give Tommy his own space--that’s what Jake said to him. That’s what _Brad_ said to him, and Adam knows Tommy likes keeping to himself. He can’t control anyone other than himself, that’s what his relationships have taught him, and if he wants to make this work--and he _does_ , he really fucking does--he’ll have to be better about applying those lessons.

 _You_ ’ _re smart, Adam. You_ ’ _ll figure it out._ His mother’s voice is in his head suddenly, and he closes his eyes and remembers the words he’s heard her say so many times, when he’s been down on himself about one failure or another. Then he looks at Tommy again, determined. This time, he’s going to make it work. He has to.

*

Tommy wakes up to the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs. He opens his eyes--feeling well-rested for once--and sees Adam coming into the room with a tray carefully balanced in his hands. He shuts his eyes again but can’t help smiling. Of course Adam notices.

“You awake?” he asks softly. “I have breakfast. And _coffee_ , I have coffee.”

“Not awake,” Tommy mumbles, but Adam sets down the tray and touches Tommy’s ankle, and it makes him laugh. He can’t feign sleep anymore.

“I know you’re awake,” Adam says. “Eat breakfast with me, come on.”

Tommy peeks out from under the covers and squints up at Adam. “Did you seriously bring me breakfast in bed?”

Adam beams. “Yes. Yes, I did. All your favorites. Because I’m an awesome boyfriend.”

Tommy’s heart skips a beat, and he pinches himself under the blanket to make sure he’s actually awake. Then he sits up, careful not to overturn the tray, and folds his legs under him, rubbing at his eyes. He can’t quite make himself meet Adam’s eyes as he says, “Um...you mean...” He almost wishes he could still hide under the covers.

“Only if you want to, Tommy, but...I thought about it for a long time last night, and I do. Want to. It feels...kind of right, you know? Like maybe this was supposed to happen. I just feel like things are going the right direction again, and all that shit with Jake and with Maddie... like maybe that was just a detour, trying to get us where we are now, you know? But I really want to be with you, and I think we’re so good together. We could be so good together.” Adam speaks quickly, the words tripping over each other, but Tommy thinks he understands the gist of it. The important part.

“You really want to...be with me?” Tommy asks.

Adam reaches out and grabs his hand. “Yeah. I really do.”

Tommy looks at their entwined hands and then bites his lip, looking away. His voice is shaking when he speaks. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you want me?”

Adam laughs a little, looking uncertain, and Tommy knows then that it’ll all come crashing down again. “Why _wouldn_ ’ _t_ I want you? You’re... You’re gorgeous, and talented, and... I don’t know, you _get_ me. You make me happy. These past few days...haven’t you been happy? I thought--I guess, if you don’t feel the same, then--”

“No! That’s not... I do. I just don’t get it.” He looks down at his lap and smiles sheepishly. “I have been happy here.”

Adam slides two fingers under Tommy’s chin, tilting his head up. Then he leans forward and kisses Tommy’s lips, soft and sweet. “You don’t have to get it, baby. Just trust me. I want this. I want _you._ ”

Tommy’s comforted by Adam’s closeness, by his kisses, but he doesn’t think Adam understands. “I’m just... I’m really fucking bad at this. I mean, you saw how it ended with Maddie, and with all the others... I just... I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“I know you, Tommy,” Adam says quietly. “You can’t disappoint me.” Adam pats Tommy’s knee and flashes a grin. “All right, time for breakfast.”

“Are we... boyfriends now?” Tommy asks.

“That’s what you want, right?”

“Yeah. I mean... yeah. I do.”

“Then we are,” Adam says simply. “And we are going to have breakfast in bed, and then I’m going to kiss you and we can spend the whole day together.”

“You mean you want to fuck me again,” Tommy says slyly. Adam opens his mouth to reply and, by the look on his face, apologize, but Tommy cuts him off. “I’m cool with that. I like that idea. You should definitely fuck me again.”

Adam laughs and kisses Tommy again, deeper this time. “I think that can be arranged.”

Tommy slides his arms up around Adam’s neck, pulling him closer and leaning back, heading for the pillows again, but Adam doesn’t follow him.

“Breakfast first,” he says firmly. “I cooked all this shit, and you are going to eat it. Besides,” he adds with a smirk, “we’ll need our energy.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and pulls the tray into his lap, while Adam climbs into bed and slides behind him, so they can lean against each other. Tommy shifts back into Adam’s arms and looks up at him, resting his cheek on Adam’s warm, bare chest. The look Adam gives him in return is so intensely heated that Tommy can’t bring himself to care about food.

Adam reaches around him, picks up a slice of pineapple with his fingers, and brings it to Tommy’s mouth with the murmured command to eat. Tommy sucks the fruit into his mouth and licks the juice off Adam’s fingers, then glances back over his shoulder. Adam licks his lips.

“I fucking love your mouth, Tommy,” he says.

“I’d rather be tasting you right now,” Tommy tells him, deliberately fluttering his eyelashes.

Adam pinches Tommy’s arm. “You can’t just say things like that. Fuck.”

Tommy laughs and picks up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “It’s true, though. I didn’t get to last night, and I want to.”

Adam licks the shell of Tommy’s ear as he chews and swallows. “You want me to fuck you, or you want to suck me off?”

“Both,” Tommy replies, shuddering. “I want everything. Anything.”

“I’m all yours, baby, whatever you want. For the rest of today, anyway. Tomorrow, I have to go back to work.” Adam sighs. “Wish I didn’t.”

Tommy’s moved on to the bacon now, and he crunches away contentedly and leans back against Adam’s chest. “Don’t wanna think about tomorrow yet,” he says.

“I like that,” Adam says. “Let’s just live in the moment, right? Fuck tomorrow. We’ll make today perfect.”

Tommy hums in agreement and finishes eating quietly, finally starting to come fully awake. This morning is surreal, and he’s completely sober but he feels almost high. He’s glad for Adam’s solid presence, big and warm behind him, reminding him that this is real.

After Tommy finishes breakfast--and insists Adam help him--Adam pulls him out of bed and into the bathroom with the promise of washing Tommy’s hair for him, scrubbing him clean all over.

“ _All_ over?” Tommy asks, grinning.

Adam pulls Tommy into his arms and leans down so they’re sharing the same air. “I want to touch every inch of you.”

The smile slides off Tommy’s face just in time for Adam’s kiss, fierce and hot and insistent, and Tommy feels his legs turn to jelly but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Adam’s hands clenched tight around his biceps are the only things holding him upright.

Adam finally deposits him on the side of the tub and Tommy stays where he’s put, catching his breath and watching Adam bend over to twist the taps on as hot as they’ll go. The bathroom quickly fills with steam and Tommy lets it take him over, relax him as he breathes it in.

Adam’s shower isn’t small, but they still take up a lot of room, and Tommy’s surprised at how easy it is to be naked and wet and close, at how unashamed he feels. Adam pushes him back under the spray and kisses him deep, water running down their faces and into their mouths, and Tommy needs to breathe but he doesn’t want to stop, feels like he could drown smiling in this.

He can feel Adam’s cock brushing against his hip, and he reaches down to wrap his fingers around it, stroking slowly and opening his eyes to watch Adam’s face. Tommy’s always thought Adam was fucking hot, but god, like this...his hair is wet and falling in his eyes in dark spikes, and his mouth is open and panting, water dripping from lip to lip, and he’s staring at Tommy with this _look_ , his eyes lit up from the inside. Tommy doesn’t even think, doesn’t hesitate, just slides down to his knees, resting his hands on the muscles of Adam’s thighs and looking up through the water at him.

Adam slides his hand through Tommy’s wet hair, pushing it out of his face and cradling the back of his head gently and says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to,” Tommy tells him. “I want to taste...” He leans forward and licks the head of Adam’s cock, savoring the taste of precome on his tongue. “I need to.” He shifts his weight and spreads his knees for better balance, then pulls Adam’s cock to the right level for his mouth. Adam’s hand doesn’t leave the back of his head, but it’s oddly comforting, not like the times when people just grabbed his hair.

“Easy,” Adam instructs. “Take it slow.”

Tommy leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Adam’s cock, just like he remembers doing in what feels like another life, another time, and Adam’s fingers twitch a little where they’re touching him. He likes doing that, feeling Adam react to him, and he ventures another lick, slower and harder, right over the slit.

Adam groans and his hips shift, just a little, pressing himself against Tommy’s lips just for a second before he regains control. “That’s right, baby, come on, just a little bit now...”

Tommy opens his mouth and slides down, lets Adam’s cock press down on his tongue and stretch his lips wide, and he knows he should stop but he doesn’t want to, wants to just keep pushing until he has it all.

Adam stops him before he hits his throat, tugging sharply on Tommy’s wet hair, and Tommy whines up at him around his cock. “ _Fuck,_ I know baby, I know. I’ll get you there, just...god, just stay right there, fucking perfect for the first time...”

He’s moving his hips now, shallow fucks into Tommy’s mouth, and Tommy sucks down the taste of him and thrills at the ache in his jaw and thinks about how he gets to do this again. He has a boyfriend and he sucks his cock and he gets to do it whenever he wants, and maybe the thought shouldn’t make him so happy, but, for some reason, it does. It _really_ does.

Tommy reaches up to wrap a hand around the base of Adam’s cock and redoubles his efforts, pressing his lips tight and working his tongue and really _sucking_ , and after a few moments his thoughts sort of...fade out, everything inside him going calm, lost in the repetitive motion of it, the growing pain in his knees, Adam’s looming presence over him. When Adam comes, it takes him completely by surprise, his mouth suddenly overwhelmed with the sharp, bitter taste of him. He wants to swallow it down, but he can’t, too unprepared, everything happening too fast, so he pulls off and licks Adam through it instead, come hitting his lips and cheeks and chin for just a moment before the water washes it away. He thinks about what it would be like to do this away from the water, to kneel in front of Adam and be marked that way, Adam’s scent clinging all over his face, and suddenly he realizes how hard he is himself, close already, and he has to reach down and stroke himself quickly, lost in Adam’s hand petting slowly over his wet hair and the images in his head.

Adam pulls him to his feet and presses him back against the cold tiles of the wall, batting his hand away from his cock and taking over. Adam’s hand is bigger and he grips tighter, and he kisses Tommy so deeply, licking his own taste out of Tommy’s mouth, and Tommy’s coming before he even knows it’s going to happen, cries muffled under Adam’s lips and come spilling over Adam’s fingers.

They stand very still for several moments, and Tommy’s panting but it’s hard to breathe through the thick, steamy air. He feels overheated, suddenly, and overwhelmed with satisfaction, pleased with himself for doing so well, giving Adam what he wanted. Adam kisses him again, softly, and leaves him standing there while he turns off the water and pulls a fluffy towel down from the rack. He wraps it around Tommy’s shoulders like a cape and uses the corners to wipe the moisture from his face, and taps Tommy’s nose before turning to get his own towel.

“We forgot to wash,” Tommy says suddenly, a giggle bubbling up out of him at the realization.

Adam grins down at him, laughing too. “What can I say? You’re _distracting,_ ” he says. “Besides, I’m just gonna get you all dirty again.” His voice goes low and seductive, and Tommy feels a delicious shiver run through him. He pulls the towel closer around him and watches Adam as he dries himself, unable to look away from all those freckles highlighted in the bright light of the bathroom. He smiles to himself. They’re _everywhere._

After bundling Tommy up in soft pajama pants and one of Adam’s own t-shirts, Adam sits Tommy down on the side of the tub again and starts toweling Tommy’s hair dry. He doesn’t add any product, but he runs his fingers through it over and over, petting Tommy’s head and tugging gently, and Tommy smiles, letting his thoughts settle once more. Adam’s still naked in front of him, his cock half-hard and right within Tommy’s reach, so Tommy touches him. He lays his palm flat on Adam’s hip, fanning his fingers out across his lower belly, then slowly drags it inward until he can close his hand lightly around Adam’s cock, which swells a little in his grasp.

Adam slides his fingers through Tommy’s hair and tugs, tilting Tommy’s head up and back. Tommy stares up at him with his mouth hanging open, at Adam’s dark eyes and the long, straight slope of his nose. His full, freckled lips, and the damp hair clinging to his forehead. He wants his mouth on Adam’s cock again, wants to feel Adam filling his throat, wants to taste and smell the come now that it won’t wash away immediately.

“I want to fuck you later,” Adam murmurs. “I want to fuck you so deep and sweet, Tommy. “

“Yes,” Tommy agrees. “Please, yes.”

Adam stares down at him for another long moment before breaking into low laughter. “You’re insatiable,” he says. Tommy doesn’t think so; he just wants more of Adam, wants Adam to have more of him. He doesn’t think that counts. But he nods anyway, because he can recognize the teasing in Adam’s words.

Adam moves away from him then, to the bathroom counter where he scrubs a moisturizer onto his face and hands and dries his hair with a hand towel. Tommy watches him sift through his beauty products and has to ask, “Are you really staying here with me all day?”

Adam meets his eyes in the mirror. “All day, Tommy. And I’m going to wear you out, so you won’t have time to miss me tomorrow.”

Tommy smiles. “Impossible. I miss you already.”

Adam whirls around and sinks to his knees in front of Tommy without hesitating, pulling Tommy down into a deep, fierce kiss, nipping his lips as he pulls away a moment later.

“What do you say to a movie,” Adam asks against his lips, “maybe some TV, whatever you want, and making out on the couch like teenagers?”

Tommy closes his eyes and melts into Adam’s embrace. He feels warm and still a little damp and soft all over, and he smells so clean and fresh. “I like that plan,” he replies between kisses. He thinks about all the times they’ve kissed, all the times it hasn’t meant anything. It feels even better now. “I like kissing you.”

Adam grins. “Good. I like kissing you, too.”

Adam changes into soft, loose, lounge-around-the-house clothes and they relocate to the living room, and Tommy settles himself on the couch while Adam rummages through DVDs. He turns around victoriously after a few minutes, brandishing _Velvet Goldmine_ , and Tommy grins.

“Oh man, I haven’t seen that in _ages!_ ” Tommy says.

“I haven’t either. I think we watched it enough on the first two tours that I finally got sick of it,” Adam replies, laughing.

“We definitely need a bigger movie selection on the bus this time around. Maybe we can get them delivered to our bus!”

Adam plops down on the couch with the remote and tilts his head, thinking. “I don’t think they do that, Tommy.”

“Whatever, you’re famous. They’ll do it for you.” Tommy cuddles up against Adam’s side, and Adam’s arm comes around him and pulls him in close. He leans over and presses a kiss to Adam’s neck, just because he can, just to remind himself that this cuddling isn’t like any cuddling they’ve done before. This is _boyfriend_ cuddling.

They watch quietly, and when the characters on the screen kiss, Adam tilts Tommy’s head up and kisses him too. Tommy giggles when he gets his breath back, and Adam blushes.

“I always wanted to do that with you,” he admits.

“I’m glad you did,” Tommy replies. He darts in and kisses Adam quickly, just once on the lips, and then settles back into Adam’s arms.

Adam keeps making comments throughout the movie, about this hairstyle and that song, and those ridiculous shoes. It would usually drive Tommy crazy, talking over the movie like that, but it’s different with Adam. _Everything_ seems different with Adam. Tommy likes hearing his thoughts, but he doesn’t really participate, at least until Curt and Brian are in bed together, totally not covered by the sheets. Tommy elbows Adam and twists to look up at him.

“That’s totally us,” he says. “Last night.”

“It’ll be us tonight too,” Adam replies, wiggling his eyebrows.

“It’s pretty hot, right? You think we could be that hot?”

“We already are, baby,” Adam whispers, and pulls Tommy up for a kiss with a hand under his chin. Adam’s fingers dig into his throat a little, and his teeth scrape Tommy’s lips, and Tommy melts against him. Adam guides him into all the right positions and shows him such perfect kisses. Tommy’s fingers clench and release of their own accord on a handful of Adam’s shirt.

“You promised to fuck me,” he slurs. “Can we do that now?”

“Here?” Adam asks.

“Yeah.”

“With the movie on?”

“Whatever. Yeah.”

Adam turns Tommy over onto his back and lays him out longways on the couch, takes his time undressing them both, pausing to point out scenes in the movie, which Tommy doesn’t at all care about now. He pulls one of those handy travel bottles of lube and a strip of condoms out from under the couch cushions, and Tommy wonders if Adam has them stashed all over the house. He wonders if they could fuck all over the house, in every room, now that they’re boyfriends. They could do that now, and nobody would think twice, because they’re together. Tommy suddenly wants to try.

“I want you to fuck me everywhere,” he tells Adam, who laughs.

“What does that mean?”

“I mean... everywhere here. All over the house. In the pool. Can we do that? Would you fuck me underwater, Adam? And outside, and in the kitchen. And in the car, can we fuck in your car?”

Adam laughs again, keeps laughing as he leans over Tommy and kisses him sloppily, so that giggles escape whenever their lips part. “I’ll fuck you anywhere you want,” he says.

“Then fuck me here, right now.”

So Adam does. And he tells Tommy about all the places they could-- _will_ \--fuck, all the ways Adam wants him. He makes good on his promise, fucking Tommy slow and sweet and deep, and Tommy comes with Adam’s voice murmuring in one ear and dirty guitar riffs sounding in the other.

They finish in time for the end of the movie, and Adam curls around Tommy, pulling an afghan over them so they won’t be cold. Adam keeps nuzzling his ear and the back of his neck, but it doesn’t tickle. It just makes warmth shiver through Tommy’s body.

“I wish I could spend every day with you, like this,” Adam whispers. “Wish I could just hide here and never leave.”

“It’s not really that fun,” Tommy tells him. “You’d get bored, and you’d get tired of me. I sleep in all the time, and I play music really loud. You’ll wanna escape, trust me.”

Adam nuzzles Tommy’s face with his cheek. “All I do in the morning is work out. And I sing really loud. And the things I want to escape from are out there, not in here.”

Tommy’s heart swells. “You mean me?”

“Yeah, I mean you. We’re pretty good together, you know? I’m totally keeping you.”

It’s possibly the best thing anyone has ever said to Tommy, and he can’t even respond, just buries his face in Adam’s skin and breathes him in, wraps his arms and legs around Adam and never wants to let go. He wants to sink into Adam’s body and never leave.

Adam holds him for a long time, all the way through the rest of the movie and the credits. When the music stops, he stirs and sits up, stretching, and Tommy watches him, all those broad stretches of smooth, freckled skin that he just wants to _touch_. Adam catches him looking, and he blushes. He doesn’t just blush in his face, either--the pink flush goes all the way down through his shoulders, his chest, and Tommy crawls up into Adam’s lap and clings onto him again.

“God, Tommy, the way you look at me sometimes...”

“How do I look at you?”

“I don’t know. It’s like... It’s like you’re my biggest fan, you know? But like, in a good way, like I actually mean something to you. Like nobody could know me better, or be closer to me. It makes me feel really good.”

Tommy breathes out in relief. “As long as it’s not, like... creepy. I don’t mean to be creepy. I just like looking at you.”

Adam rubs his hands slowly up and down Tommy’s back and shakes his head. “Nope. Not creepy.”

“Good. Then I’m the president of your fuckin’ fanclub, babyboy,” Tommy teases, and he can feel Adam’s chest shaking with laughter before he can hear it. “You can’t get rid of me.” _Please don_ ’ _t ever try_.

They get dressed again for dinner, but undressed when they go upstairs for bed. Adam doesn’t fuck him again, even though Tommy sort of wants it; Adam touches him instead, rubs his hands all over Tommy’s chest and his throat and his arms, kisses him breathless and murmurs into his ear.

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” Adam whispers, and Tommy blinks in the dark, wishes he could see Adam’s face.

“Why not?”

“Because then today is over, and tomorrow I have to go back to work.”

“You like your work. It’s like...your dream. Isn’t it?”

Adam sighs. Tommy can feel the movement of his chest, and the puff of warm air against his skin. “Yeah, it is. But just makes everything more...intense, you know? Like, I can’t just date someone. It’s like the whole world is watching me. Like my whole life is just one long episode of that Blind Date show, complete with snarky commentary. And I don’t _want_ things to be like that, with us. I want it to just be...us. God, I’m not making any sense.”

Tommy doesn’t know exactly what to say to that, so he just makes an encouraging noise and snuggles closer. Adam’s hand finds his under the sheets and holds on, and Tommy wonders if he could sleep like this, hand in hand with Adam. He probably could.

“I have to do an interview tomorrow, and they’re gonna ask me about Jake. And eventually they’re gonna be asking me about you. Even if we try to keep it to ourselves, Tommy, someone’s gonna find out eventually. And...I don’t like hiding. I really, really don’t.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide,” Tommy agrees quietly.

“And you shouldn’t have to come out before you’re ready,” Adam replies.

The term surprises Tommy, and he opens his mouth and closes it again, words failing him. He’s never really thought of it that way before. He’s never felt like he was lying, or hiding. But Adam’s right, he will need to go public if he expects to stay with Adam, and his stomach twists into a tight knot. He finds himself clinging to Adam’s hand and forces his fingers to relax.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Say whatever you need to say in your interviews. I don’t mind.”

“Tommy... You can’t just say that. This is _important_. You need time to process, you need... You need to know yourself really well. I can’t just mention you offhand in some random interview. That’s not fair to you.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy insists. “I’m fine with it. As long as it’s you, you know?”

Adam’s quiet for a long time, and Tommy wonders if maybe he’s fallen asleep after all. When he speaks again, he sounds cautious, as if he’s choosing his words very carefully. “You know I don’t believe in putting labels on everything, Tommy. I’m not trying to do that to you. But...I don’t know if people are gonna let you get away with calling yourself straight any more. They’re gonna ask. Fuck, I know better than anyone, they’re gonna ask a _lot._ And I don’t know if you’ll know what to say back to them. Have you...have you thought about it? Do you even want to?”

What Tommy _wants_ is for Adam to go to sleep, or change the subject, or maybe fuck him through the mattress again. He wiggles closer, crawling half on top of Adam, and kisses him once, twice, just chaste little kisses that he hopes will distract him. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t care, just promise me, promise it doesn’t matter to you, please.” He kisses Adam again, doesn’t give him time to answer.

Adam reaches up and clasps his hands around the back of Tommy’s neck, squeezing gently but insistently until Tommy pulls away. “It’s okay with me, Tommy. Whatever you need to say is okay with me. I just need you to think about it, all right?”

Tommy takes a deep breath and tries it out tentatively, just inside his head. He skirts around the word for a long time, but finally there’s nothing else to do, nowhere else to go.

 _Gay._ It sounds...weird. Not wrong, exactly, but not...him. It’s like the word has all these things that come with it, a whole culture, a whole fucking _language_ that Tommy’s heard but doesn’t know how to speak, and he’s too old to start learning. The word makes him think of Adam, and Sutan, and people who are beautiful and confident and genuinely fabulous. It doesn’t sound like him at all.

A whole slew of other words, other _labels_ , come to mind as soon as he eliminates the first, most obvious one. He sifts through them, trying them on for size, and eventually comes up with “bisexual” as the one that seems to fit the best. But it’s still not...not quite right, not quite comfortable. He tries to imagine describing himself with that term and sighs, frustrated. Why do there have to be labels at all? Why does he have to choose a word? He doesn’t know enough words to find the one that fits him, if it even exists at all.

He turns over onto his side, facing away from Adam, and he waits for Adam to spoon up behind him. He wants it so badly, he barely lets himself breathe until he hears the blankets shift, feels Adam reaching for him. Tommy sighs deeply and closes his eyes, holding Adam’s hand tight against his stomach.

Adam kisses his ear and whispers, “Today was a good day,” and Tommy smiles into the dark.

“Yeah, it was. The best day,” he replies, and means it.

“We’ll make tomorrow good too.”

Adam sounds determined, and Tommy can almost feel that strong will bracing him. He thinks he could do almost anything with Adam behind him. He sort of already has.

He nods against the pillow and presses closer to Adam, and he’s not even turned on by all of their bare skin -- he just takes comfort from Adam’s arms surrounding him, from his broad chest against Tommy’s back. Sleep comes easy, warm and slow and even, and Adam’s still there when he wakes up, still holding him just as close as he had all through the long night.

*  


It’s a little bit difficult to concentrate on putting on a bit of eyeliner when Adam can see Tommy staring at him in the mirror. His gaze keeps drifting to Tommy, to the soft smile on his face, and away from the pencil an inch from his eye. Adam finally gives up and turns around, resting his ass on the counter to face Tommy.

“You’re too distracting,” he says. “I can’t get ready.”

“What if I don’t want you to get ready?” Tommy asks impishly.

Adam rolls the eyeliner pencil between his finger and thumb, considering. “You know I’d rather stay here.”

“I know.”

“Especially after yesterday, after... last night. I wish I could be here with you.”

“I get it,” Tommy says quietly. His smile fades and Adam’s heart clenches; he doesn’t want to make Tommy unhappy like this. He doesn’t want to disappoint him. “Work is important.”

 _It_ ’ _s not more important than you_ , Adam thinks, but he can’t say that. His work is important--for both of them--and if he even admits the possibility of staying home, skipping out on these interviews... Then he’ll never leave.

“You know you’re welcome to come with me...you know, if you want,” Adam ventures, already knowing what Tommy’s answer will be. His thoughts flicker back to last tour, to all those nights of going out, Tommy electing to stay back at the hotel. He’s never been with someone so introverted before. But maybe it’ll be nice. He’s so busy now with work obligations anyway...it might be good to do more staying home.

Today, though, he has no choice, and he glances down at his phone with a sigh. Time to go. Tommy still hasn’t replied, and when Adam looks at him he can see the conflict in Tommy’s eyes. He reaches out and pulls Tommy into a tight hug.

“You don’t have to, baby. It’s okay. I’m used to it.” He pulls away and holds Tommy at arm’s length. “We’ll have time together tonight. I’m not _too_ busy yet.”

“Before tour?”

“Yeah,” Adam says. “We have until tour. And then we have _tour_. So don’t worry about it.”

Tommy nods and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “I, um...I thought some more about what you said. Last night.”

Adam raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. And I just want you to know that I _am_ thinking about it. It’s just really...new, you know?” Tommy takes a quick breath, laughing a little on the exhale. “I mean, not you. I’ve thought about you for a long time. But I guess I never thought anything would actually happen, or like, what it would _mean_ if it did.”

At that, Adam just doesn’t have a choice, _has_ to frame Tommy’s face with his hands and kiss him, slow and deep. He’s beaming when he pulls back, and a warm feeling goes all through him when he realizes Tommy’s answering smile goes all the way to his eyes.

“Hold that thought, baby. When I get back, I want to know just _how_ long.”

Usually, Adam uses time alone in the car to get himself psyched up for whatever he’s driving to. For a day of interviews, that means practicing his polite smile and reminding himself what _not_ to say. But today, he can’t stop thinking about Tommy, waiting for him back at home. He wonders what Tommy’s doing, if he’s watching TV or playing his guitar or if he’s just gone back to sleep. And _that_ makes him think about Tommy in bed, in _his_ bed, maybe sprawled out right in the middle, taking up as much room as possible with Adam gone. It would be so easy to crawl right up on top of him, to...

Adam shakes himself and turns the music up louder. He so cannot be thinking about Tommy in bed right now. He forces himself to think instead about all the things Chad prepped him for. There will be questions about his new single, and about his tour schedule, and about Jake. Adam’s not looking forward to those questions at all, but Chad’s right: their break-up was so public, it has to be controlled in the press. There’s no way to escape it. He just has to suck it up and face them down, and then politely turn the conversation back to his music. He’s certainly had enough practice doing that.

By the time he checks in at the studio’s front desk, he’s feeling pretty confident. Except for Jake, it’s nothing Adam hasn’t faced before. A production assistant leads him to a dressing room, where a makeup artist brushes his face with powder to get rid of any shine, and then he’s out on the studio floor, until a million blinding lights and with a microphone clipped to his lapel.

The interviewer, a guy named Bill, hasn’t arrived yet. One of the PAs tells Adam he’s still in makeup, and Adam waves off her offer of coffee or a snack while he waits. He really wants to take a picture of the empty chair next to him and text it to Tommy with the words _wish you were here_ , but if Tommy’s napping, or if he’s practicing his guitar... Adam doesn’t want to disturb him. Especially with something so embarrassingly romantic. He’s not quite sure they’re up to that point in their relationship.

 _Relationship_ , he thinks with amusement. They’ve been together a day -- two weeks, if he’s counting from their first hookup. It only feels like longer.

Bill comes in and the entire studio bursts into motion, readying cameras and checking microphones and lights. Bill shakes Adam’s hand and introduces himself, and he seems like a nice enough guy, if a little distracted. Adam just smiles and nods along. He’s already wishing for this to be over. The cameras start rolling. Adam makes sure his smile doesn’t drop.

After a very scripted intro, Bill turns in his chair to face Adam and says, “I’m here today with Adam Lambert, who’s going to tell us a little about his new single and his upcoming tour. Your third, right?”

Adam nods. “My third tour headlining, yes. I’m looking forward to it!”

“Can you tell us a little about it?”

This is something Adam can do in his sleep. He relaxes a little. “Well, it’ll be another world tour, and I’m trying to get to as many places as possible. I know last time around I missed out on a few countries, so I’m definitely trying to get there, and see all my international fans. And this time, it’s much more about the feeling, and the melodies, and the joy of it. Lots of dancing, lots of lights. I have a whole effects team traveling with me. It’ll be big, for sure, but my band and I are looking forward to it a lot.”

“So it will be focused mainly on the new album?” Bill prompts.

“Yeah, definitely. I mean, of course I’ll bring back some of the fan favorites, but this tour is really about exploring the physicality of the songs that I wrote. Staging them, choreographing them, lighting them, things like that.”

“It’s a much happier album than your previous one--I hope that doesn’t sound strange. I just mean, it seems more optimistic.”

Adam’s heart sinks. He knew this was coming. _Keep going_ , he tells himself, and forces his smile to remain intact. “It is, yeah. On the last album, I tried to experiment a little with duality. Make it a little darker, play with contrasts, but for this one, I really had a much clearer vision. More... concise. More coherent.”

“The first single was definitely a love song, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you picked the new single yet? Can you give us an inside scoop?”

“I have, actually! Right now I’m working on getting the video all squared away--we haven’t shot yet, but it’s coming up soon. We’re trying to get it all finished before tour, and I’m really excited. I’ve got some great people signed on for it, to direct and for costumes and makeup, things like that. Amazing dancers. It’ll be really fun.”

“But you can’t tell us what song?”

“Not yet, but I mean, the whole album is...”

“It’s all about falling in love, isn’t it? Love and romance.”

“Exactly, yeah.”

Adam sees a flash in Bill’s eyes that makes him nervous, but he doesn’t even have time to prepare himself before Bill asks, “It’s about your relationship with fashion model Jacob Cruz, isn’t that right?”

Adam feels his face freeze. He tries not to let the facade slip. “I don’t think I’ve made a secret about that, yeah.”

“But you and he aren’t together anymore? Or is that just a rumor you can put to rest?”

“It’s not a rumor,” Adam says firmly. “We’re no longer together. But it was for the best, and it was time for us to part ways. Of course I wish him all the best, but--”

“But it was really public, wasn’t it? When he left you?”

“He didn’t--We broke up, yeah, and unfortunately we caused a scene, but that’s not really how it--”

“Isn’t it true that you already have a new boyfriend, though? That’s quite a fast turnaround.” Bill laughs, like he’s joking, but Adam can see right through him. He wonders how much Chad told him, if Chad gave him anything about Tommy specifically. He hopes not.

“I...” Adam swallows and laughs a little along with Bill. He can’t afford to look like an idiot right now. He tells himself it’s all planned out, all scripted. Nothing can go wrong now. “I am seeing someone, yes. But like you said, it’s kind of fast. I’m trying to keep it... not _quiet_ , but, you know... Private. For the time being.”

“According to our, uh... twitter-sources--you know they watch you like a hawk. Your fans are pretty intense!”

“They are, definitely, but they mean well. They’re--”

“Apparently you’ve been out and about with your guitarist, Tommy? Is that right?”

Adam can’t remember seeing any press articles about himself and Tommy, but he hasn’t been keeping track of his twitter feed. He has no idea what kind of paparazzi photos are floating around on the internet. He decides to be honest-- _mostly_ honest, anyway.

“Yeah, I’ve been hanging out with some friends. When Jake and I broke up, of course I needed some time to regroup, so I was really glad to have everyone around me, supporting me. And my fans have been so great, too. Sending me letters and tweets. They’ve really helped me.”

“So are you and Tommy together now?” Bill turns to face the camera. “For those of you who don’t remember, Tommy Joe Ratliff is the one Adam famously--or _infamously_ \--kissed during a performance on the American Music Awards several years ago. And he’s played in your band ever since, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, he has. We’re really good friends.”

“But during that whole disaster--”

“I wouldn’t say it was a--”

“You insisted Tommy was straight, right? But now it’s looking like he bats for the other team. So, how did you finally turn him?” Bill winks and nudges Adam with his elbow, smiling broadly.

“Excuse me?” Adam’s mind is completely and utterly blank. He suppresses an urge to punch Bill’s stupidly white teeth out of his head.

“Oh, come on, Adam--”

“No. No, that’s... That’s not what happened, and I don’t appreciate you talking about me or my friends that way. What Tommy and I do is our own business, and questions like that are exactly why I’ve decided to keep my relationships private from now on.”

“So you _are_ with Tommy now? I guess this can serve as his official coming out; you can’t get much more out than if you’re sleeping with Adam Lambert, isn’t that right?” Bill’s acting like he’s joking again, but Adam doesn’t care. He clenches his hands around the armrests of his chair.

“No, he’s not out, and if he _ever_ comes out, that’s _his choice_ ,” Adam hisses. “I won’t talk about him, and I won’t talk about what kind of relationship he has with me. He’s my friend, and he’s in my band, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Thankfully, Bill seems to finally pick up on Adam’s tone. He turns back to the camera and says, “Well, that’s all we have time for with Adam. We’ll be sure to keep you posted on news about his upcoming single!” He looks at Adam again and offers his hand. Adam shakes it. If he squeezes a little too hard, Bill doesn’t let on. “You can be sure we’ll be playing that video when it comes out! Thanks for joining us today, Adam.”

Adam grits his teeth and forces a smile. It probably comes out as more of a grimace. “Thanks for having me.”

It seems like an eternity before the camera shuts off. Adam lets his face fall and his shoulders slump, and Bill shakes Adam’s hand again.

“Thanks a lot, Adam, that was great. We’ll let you know when it airs!”

“Don’t bother.”

He collects his things from the dressing room and talks to as few people as possible, brushing off requests for autographs and photos, and he’s not even back to his car before his phone starts buzzing. Adam desperately wishes to see Tommy’s name flashing on the screen, but of course it’s Chad. He sighs and presses the button to answer.

“I can’t talk right now, I’m driving,” he says loudly.

“You haven’t left the building yet,” Chad replies.

Adam looks around the parking complex nervously. “How do you know that?”

“I know everything. I know you fucked up this interview. Adam, I _told you_ they would ask about your boyfriend. You have no excuse for flying off the rails--”

“I didn’t fly off the rails!” Adam protests. “The guy was being a dick. I’m surprised I held it together as well as I did.”

“From what I hear, you didn’t hold it together at all.”

“I didn’t punch him in front of the cameras,” Adam mutters.

“That’s your only saving grace right now. This thing about Tommy is going to be all over the internet in a matter of hours, and it’ll really explode once they air this interview on Wednesday. We have to handle it now, while we still can, before it becomes a bigger story.”

“Can’t you just keep it from airing?” Adam asks. He’s whining and he knows it, but he lets himself do it anyway. That’s what managers are _for_.

“He’s the story, Adam -- everyone wants to know about your new boyfriend. It was gonna come out sooner or later, kid. Might as well get it over with. Now, take him out to dinner tomorrow night. I’m making you a reservation. There will be wine and candles and flowers, the whole shebang. I’m not taking no for an answer. _Do this_ , Adam. Think of it like a paid appearance.”

“Tommy doesn’t _do_ appearances,” Adam says through gritted teeth. “He’s not that famous. He doesn’t want to be.”

“He is now, and he’s doing it. Talk him into it if you have to. I expect both of you at that restaurant with smiling, happy faces.”

It’s no use arguing with Chad. He has Adam’s best interests at heart, Adam knows that; it’s just hard sometimes to follow Chad’s plans. He takes a deep breath. “Fine. Whatever.” Then he hangs up the phone.

Adam gets into his car and slams the door, but he doesn’t put the key in the ignition. He sits with his head in his hands, staring down at the frayed cuff of his jeans. He wanted to spend tomorrow with Tommy, alone, but Chad’s right. They need to control their press before it gets out of hand. The fans will go crazy enough as it is.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

It’s only dinner. And Adam’s determined to make it a nice dinner, especially if his management’s footing the bill. He still gets to spend the day with Tommy, and it’s not like he hadn’t been planning to take Tommy out somewhere romantic anyway. _Just not this soon_.

Adam’s still angry when he gets home, grinding his teeth and gripping the steering wheel too hard, and he slams the car door behind him when he finally gets parked. He knows better than this, knows better than to bring work home with him. Fucking Twitter, fucking Bill, fucking _Chad_ , dragging Tommy into this whole publicity game. The last thing Adam wants is for Tommy to feel like work, too.

He pauses at the door and forces himself to take a deep breath. Whatever else this is, it isn’t Tommy’s fault.

He hears Tommy’s guitar before he sees him, and by the time Adam gets to the living room, Tommy’s discarded the guitar on the couch and is jumping up to launch himself into Adam’s arms. Despite himself, Adam laughs, and his arms come around Tommy’s narrow shoulders in a hug.

“Missed you,” Tommy says into Adam’s chest.

Adam lets his head rest on the top of Tommy’s, since he doesn’t seem to be interested in moving any time soon. “Missed you too, baby. Not too bored while I was gone, I hope?”

Tommy shakes his head. “I, um...I sort of worked on a song. Thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna, like, hear it?” Tommy’s voice is still muffled in Adam’s shirt, and Adam can practically feel him blushing even through the material. He squeezes Tommy tighter.

“Baby, I’d love to--in a little bit, though? After dinner maybe?” Adam suggests, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

Tommy pulls back a little and looks up to meet Adam’s eyes. “Shit. What happened?”

Adam sighs inwardly. He’s never been very good at hiding his emotions. “I had an interview today...”

“I know.”

“It didn’t go very well,” Adam says carefully. “He was tipped off, he must’ve seen some pictures or something, I don’t know, but... He asked me about you.”

Tommy’s voice is very quiet when he asks, “What about me?” Adam isn’t sure how to answer, and Tommy continues, laughing a little. Adam can feel the nervous tension radiating from him. “I’m guessing it wasn’t about the AMAs. Again.”

“Well...that too. Sort of everything, I guess. So much for keeping things private,” Adam says bitterly.

Tommy’s quiet for a long time. Finally, he leans up and kisses Adam’s lips, softly and slowly. When he pulls back again, his face is solemn, but he doesn’t seem upset. “It’s okay, Adam. You’re...you’re worth it. Keeping things under wraps was a pipe dream, anyway. Had to come out sometime.”

“I didn’t want it to be now,” Adam grumbles. “I wanted time to just... be with you.” He shakes himself, forcing away some of the anger. “Fuck ‘em. I want to take you out tomorrow. Fancy restaurant, candles and wine, all of it. And maybe a movie? Now that it’s out there, I might as well show you off. Will you do that with me, Tommy Joe?”

It feels a little bit like lying, more when Tommy’s face lights up, then tenses. And it’s not like Adam doesn’t want those things, but...god, they’ve been together, really together, for hardly any time at all. Everything feels new and fragile, like something as small as the flash of a camera could tear it all apart.

“You really want that? To go out with me and...be seen with me?” Tommy asks, and Adam’s frustration rises again. He wants to grab Tommy by the shoulders and _shake_ him, make him realize that it’s just as much about him being seen with Adam as Adam being seen with him, and really not about being _seen_ at all.

“Of course I do,” he snaps. “I said I did, and I have for a long fucking time, all right? You have to trust me. I want this. Just...” Adam trails off and sighs, feeling some of his anger ebb. “Just believe that, okay? Tommy?”

“I do,” Tommy tells him quietly, his face falling. “It’s just... new. I never thought you would, and I... I kept telling myself that you’d never... you know. Think that. _Feel_ that. About me.”

And Adam understands that, he does. He did the same with Tommy, convinced himself since they met that Tommy would never want him. But now that he knows Tommy does want him, has wanted him for a while now... All he feels is happiness. “I know,” he says. “But now I get that you want to be with me. I don’t need you to tell me that over and over. You know what I mean? I wish you would trust that I want to be with you, too. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers. He ducks his head down and reaches for Adam’s hand. “I do trust you, I swear. I’ll do better.”

“Oh, Tommy,” Adam sighs. One of these days he’s going to ask, about Tommy’s parents and what it was like growing up Catholic and what his high school was like, and maybe he’s finally gonna figure out who made Tommy believe he’s so much...less. Less than he _is._ But not today. Not while he’s angry. He can’t deal with that knowledge, not right now.

 _These are the things you_ ’ _re supposed to find out in a relationship, anyway_ , he tells himself. They’re supposed to have the long talks about their pasts, their scars. There’s time for that. He grasps Tommy’s wrist and squeezes gently, and then pulls himself away.

“Let’s make some dinner, all right? You hungry?”

“Sure,” Tommy replies. “Yeah.”

Tommy doesn’t mention the date again until Adam stands up from the dinner table, dishes in hand. He wonders if Tommy’s been thinking about it this whole time, all the way through cooking and eating and talking about safe, easy things. Music. TV. Hair products.

“Adam?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Of course I wanna go out with you. Flowers, candles, all that shit. Let’s do it,” Tommy says, sounding determined.

Adam sets the empty plates back down on the table and comes around to stroke his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “Are you sure? There’s probably--definitely--gonna be cameras. Part of the package.”

Tommy makes a contented sound under Adam’s touch and nods. “I’m sure. I wanna go out with my boyfriend.”

Hearing Tommy use that term makes Adam’s breath catch, and he grins and leans down to wrap his arms gently around Tommy’s neck and plant a kiss in his messy hair.

“Then it’s a date.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

Tommy can’t stop fidgeting. He knows Adam must have noticed, but he can’t make himself stop. Everything he does feels _wrong._ If he picks up a fork, he worries it’s the wrong one for this course and puts it down again. If he tugs at his sleeves, trying to get them to stay put over his wrists, he wonders if maybe Adam liked them pushed up instead and moves them back. If he glances around the restaurant, a cold shot of fear goes through him like ice water, and he has to look back down, terrified that he might see someone staring at him. At _them._

He suddenly hears his name and his gaze snaps back to Adam. Tommy thinks maybe Adam’s been trying to get his attention for a while now.

“Are you all right, Tommy?” he asks, looking politely concerned. Tommy glances around again--he can feel so many eyes on him, burning him up. He smooths his napkin over his lap compulsively, rubbing the cloth flat against his leg.

“Yeah. Fine. Great,” he replies, hoping Adam won’t see through his faked enthusiasm. “What were you saying?”

Adam gives Tommy a worried look, but he answers the question. “I was asking about the song you were working on yesterday. Is it something you might like to play on tour, you think? I’m gonna need music to change costumes to.”

Tommy thinks back to the pile of scrap paper sitting in a drawer back home, notes and chords scrawled almost at random on them. There’s something there, he knows there is, but he can never get it to come together and _be_ what it is. He ducks his head, wishing he could say yes and knowing he can’t.

“It’s not even really a song, just, I dunno, messing around.”

“I still want to hear it,” Adam says, smiling, and Tommy can’t help smiling back.

Tommy reaches for his wine glass and takes a long sip, and when he’s finished, he doesn’t want to put it back down. He holds the glass near his face, sets his lips on the edge, but doesn’t tip it up to drink.

“It’s good that you’re writing,” Adam continues, and Tommy nods. “We should write together sometime. That would be cool, right?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You can work with _anybody_. You don’t wanna write with me.”

Adam gives him a stern look. “Tommy, I like your music. I’m not lying about that. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but don’t put it on me, okay? Just say no. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” Tommy mutters, then drinks some more of his wine. He keeps sipping until his glass is empty, and even then he’s reluctant to put it down. Over the top of the glass, he sees Adam reach for the bottle and gesture towards Tommy.

“You like the wine, baby?” Adam asks, and though Tommy’s hardly tasting it as he drinks, he nods and sets his glass down for more. He kind of wishes Adam wouldn’t call him that. It always makes him feel so good at home, but here, it just makes him self-conscious, and he glances around the room again, not sure what he’s looking for.

The pretty blonde hostess who seated them returns with another couple in tow, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Tommy looks away from them as they pass, but then he hears them taking off their coats and sitting down at the next table, and he has to sneak a look. It’s a man and a woman, and like Adam and Tommy, it looks like they’re out on a date. The hostess leans over the table and lights the candle for them, just like she did for him and Adam, and she hands them their menus with a smile before walking away.

The woman looks at her... boyfriend? Husband? Tommy doesn’t know, but they seem close. She looks at him for a long moment, and then without warning, she turns her head and meets Tommy’s eyes. He startles and sinks slower in his chair, whipping his hair out from behind his ear to cover his face. His cheeks feel hot, and Adam’s looking at him now too, and he suddenly hears the woman laughing, and her date joining in, and Tommy looks over at Adam.

Then he looks down at their table. Back up at Adam. At the candle between them, the bottle of wine, the glasses and plates and silverware that’s way too expensive for him to be eating from. He doesn’t belong here, and he definitely doesn’t belong here with Adam. Adam’s comfortable -- he’s used to this kind of place. He fits in. Tommy can’t stand it. He grabs for the bottle of wine, needing the refill to quiet his mind, but the bottle catches the edge of a plate and tilts, and then it’s slipping out of Tommy’s grasp and falling, pouring out across his side of the table, all in horrible slow motion. Tommy can’t even hear the noise it makes, his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears, but he knows it must’ve been obvious. Everyone’s looking at him now, and Adam’s reaching for him, concerned. Tommy grabs the napkin from his lap and crumples it in his hand, blotting at the biggest puddle of wine on the tablecloth, but it’s useless, and he sees their waitress coming over with a towel. Tommy pushes his chair back abruptly and stands.

“Need to--” he says, choking off the rest of his excuse.

“The bathrooms are to the left, down the hall,” Adam murmurs quietly. He’s not looking at Tommy anymore. He’s embarrassed. Tommy can tell. He can see it in the disappointed set of Adam’s mouth. Tommy drops the napkin into his empty chair and takes off down the hall.

The bathroom is huge...like, _really_ huge. There are couches. And there are flowers, and classical music playing, and way, way too many mirrors. Tommy darts into an empty stall and shuts and locks the door behind him, leaning back against it and burying his face in his hands. He can’t do this, can’t believe he ever thought he might be able to in the first place. And he only has maybe a few minutes before Adam comes looking for him, and _god,_ that’ll be _worse_ , and he just _can_ ’ _t._

He reaches into his pocket for his phone, by sheer force of habit, and blinks at the screen through watery eyes, his fingers working through the icons without him even having to think about it. Just...something to distract him, just for a second. Anything. Something to make his heart feel a little less like it’s about to explode in his chest.

He taps through his texts and his email, and by the time he gets to Twitter he’s already feeling calmer, a little less lost in his own head. He likes Twitter, despite its flaws, likes the way it makes him feel connected to the world, to people he hasn’t seen in weeks or months or ever, and he skims through his feed slowly, smiling at tweets from Sophie and Mia and even Neil, who’s somehow found a way to tweet even from China, his latest venture. He takes a deep breath and leans his head back against the door. Maybe he can do this. It’s just a date. People go on dates all the time. He’s done this a hundred times before, and just because it’s with Adam doesn’t make it any different.

Well. Except that he likes Adam more than anyone he’s ever been out with before. Maybe. Probably. He ducks his head back down and smiles. He’s okay. They’re okay.

He reaches out to click out of the app, but taps the wrong place on the phone and ends up with his replies open instead. And god, he never reads these unless he’s exceptionally bored, because he’s learned over the years that it never leads to anything good. He means to close it this time without reading, too, but...something catches his eye, and then it’s too late. He can’t make himself look away.

It’s the same link over and over, all the way down, and Tommy knows he shouldn’t click it...but the headline does exactly what it’s designed to do and draws him in anyway.

 _Jacob Cruz speaks out on his breakup with Adam Lambert - and Glambert_ ’ _s newly-turned boytoy!_

The first thing Tommy sees is a picture of Adam’s ex, looking vaguely away from the camera, wind blowing through his dark hair and face angular and perfect...and next to it, a picture of himself. He recognizes it instantly, from a gig months ago, and wrinkles his nose in disgust. There’s stubble all over his face, and his hair’s a mess, and his cheeks look fat and puffy, like a fucking chipmunk. He’s surrounded by middle-aged women wearing too much glitter. Signing, probably. He can’t think of a worse picture of himself, and he scrolls down quickly, just wanting to get away from it.

He skims through the first part of the article, which explains things he already knows. When and how Adam and Jake broke up, how famous Jake is versus how famous Adam is... And then he sees his own name.

 _Guitarist for Adam_ ’ _s backing band **Tommy Joe Ratliff**_ _has been spotted out and about with the famous singer. What does Jacob have to say about that?_ “ _Well, Adam certainly didn_ ’ _t waste any time,_ ” _he told me in an exclusive phone interview._ “ _Of course he_ ’ _s going to go out and fuck the first thing he sees. The guy was there, so Adam took advantage. It_ ’ _s what he does._ ”

Tommy scrolls down some more, feeling sick to his stomach. He spots another mention of his name, and another quote from Jake.

 _But you remember Tommy from way back when! He was the one Adam kissed on the American Music Awards, causing scandal and resulting in getting Adam banned from certain networks! At the time, of course, Adam insisted Tommy was straight, and wouldn_ ’ _t blame him for anything. Jacob tells me:_ “ _Yeah, he_ ’ _s straight. You know why Adam went for him, right? It_ ’ _s not that he likes corrupting the innocent or whatever. It_ ’ _s that the innocent--those straight boys--don_ ’ _t know any better._ ” _Know any better about what? He explains._ “ _Adam thinks he_ ’ _s hot shit, and the world at large seems to believe him. I can_ ’ _t believe anyone actually thinks his stage persona is anything like the truth. He_ ’ _s an awful fuck, and he clings like a sixteen year old girl. Getting out of that relationship was the best thing I ever did. I say, if Tommy wants him, he can keep him._ ” _Well, in that case, good luck to Tommy! Seems like he has a lot to look forward to._

The phone falls out of Tommy’s shaking hands and hits the floor, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can. His stomach is churning, and it feels like there’s something wrapped painfully tight around his chest, pushing everything in too close, until even breathing hurts. And he’s running out of time, has to go back out there and face Adam’s eyes and the laughing couple and a plate of insanely expensive food he knows he won’t be able to touch. His stomach turns at the mere thought of eating.

He wishes instead that he could go back, back to before he and Adam slept together. Before they’d ever kissed. Before he’d even heard Adam’s name. Maybe even all the way back, before he decided to take up the guitar. It all led him _here_ , and here is fucked up. He just...he can’t see a way forward. Like he’s facing a brick wall, and there’s no way over or under or around. Helpless. _Stuck._

Tommy slides down the door until he’s crouched into a little ball, his head buried in his arms, and blocks out everything but the darkness. And then he hears a noise that makes him jump, a buzzing, rattling noise coming from down in between his boots. He opens his eyes to see his phone lighting up and vibrating across the tile, and Adam’s name on the screen. He grabs at it and clicks to open the message.

 _did u run off thru the kitchen n abandon me? we didnt even get our food yet_

Before Tommy can even click the button to reply, his phone buzzes again with another text.

 _you ok, baby? need me to come in?_

And suddenly Tommy feels more embarrassed than anything, and the last thing he wants is for Adam to have to come get him, like he’s a fucking child. He texts back quickly, telling Adam no, he’s fine, he’s coming, and stands up. His back is aching from the weird position, but he’s glad of the dull pain--it focuses him, gets him moving. He stops just for a minute at the row of shining sinks, to run his hands under ice cold water and glance at himself in the mirror, make sure he doesn’t look like he just had a nervous breakdown or something. Then he turns, braces himself like he’s about to walk over hot coals, and goes back out into the noise and bustle of the restaurant.

Adam breaks into a relieved smile when Tommy sits back down at their table. He reaches across, going for Tommy’s hand, but Tommy puts both hands in his lap before Adam can touch him. Their table’s been cleaned and a new bottle of wine and fresh wineglass laid out, and their food came sometime while Tommy was in the bathroom. Adam’s already eaten some of his, but Tommy’s is untouched and steaming hot. He stares at the plate, but he doesn’t even pick up a fork and pretend to eat. His stomach is too twisted up for him to even consider eating.

Adam takes a bite from his own plate, chews, and swallows. He asks, “You feeling all right?” Then takes another bite. Tommy looks back down at his own meal and picks up the fork, but he doesn’t touch the food. He doesn’t want to ruin it. Maybe someone else could have it. Maybe Adam wants it.

Adam chews again, swallows again, licks his lips. “Tommy?”

“I’m okay,” Tommy says quickly. He watches Adam take a sip from his wineglass, the red staining his upper lip. He stares for a few seconds before realizing what he’s doing and looking away. He listens to the sounds of Adam eating instead: the clink of his fork on the plate, the muffled chewing noises. The smack of his lips that sounds like a kiss.

“Tommy,” Adam says, and when Tommy looks up, he finds Adam holding out a forkful of chicken, steaming hot, juicy on the inside and perfectly browned on the outside. “Try this.”

Tommy stares at him, at the food suspended between them, and considers Adam’s words. It wasn’t a question, and his tone brooked no argument. He leans forward and opens his mouth for Adam’s fork, and Adam leans forward just far enough for him to close his lips around the bite. The flavor explodes in his mouth, rich and tender and _amazing_ , and okay, maybe this place really is worth the price.

He doesn’t realize he’s moaning until he hears Adam laughing at him. “Good, right?” Adam asks.

Adam pulls the fork out of Tommy’s mouth--slowly, like he knows exactly how much Tommy enjoyed that bite--and scoots his chair around the table until he’s sitting next to Tommy. He rearranges their plates and glasses and silverware, and he moves the candle to the far end, and then he digs his fork into the little mountain of mashed potatoes on Tommy’s plate.

“It’s been sitting there, tempting me,” Adam says, and takes the bite. “Fuck, that’s good. There’s a reason this place is so famous, I guess. Here, try some.” He digs his fork in again, carving out a crater, and brings it to Tommy’s lips. Tommy doesn’t even think, just responds, lets Adam feed him the bite of warm garlicky goodness and licks his lips after. Two bites later he feels almost back to normal, and he picks up his own fork again and digs into his food, Adam still sitting right there next to him, chattering away pleasantly about the food, the waiter, the wine. Tommy hardly listens, just enjoying the sound of Adam’s voice. It’s steadying. Calming. And when Adam slides a hand under the table to rest it on Tommy’s thigh, he just smiles and scoots his chair a little closer and keeps eating.

They polish off the bottle of wine and Adam asks to see the dessert menu, even as Tommy protests and says he can’t eat another bite.

“Come on, we’ll share,” Adam laughs. “I want to try it. And look, you can get it with this coffee liqueur stuff. You’ll love it.”

Tommy leans against Adam, feeling warm inside, all over. “You just want to feed me chocolate cake,” he says under his breath. Adam nods at the waiter and waves him away, then looks down at Tommy.

“You’re damn right I do. And then I want to lick it off your lips.”

“Really?” Tommy’s cheeks flush, but he smiles and feels the warmth inside him begin to flare into heat.

“Chocolate-Tommy. It’s my favorite dessert,” Adam says, smiling back and reaching out to tuck Tommy’s hair behind his ear.

“You’ve never had it,” Tommy teases. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re my favorite, and chocolate makes everything even better. Two things _that_ right can’t go wrong,” Adam declares, and his face is so serious when he says it that Tommy can’t help bursting out into giggles.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, and Adam raises his eyebrows and looks down his nose at Tommy’s face.

“Only in the very best way, baby.”

The dessert, when it comes, is huge and dripping with chocolate sauce, and Adam makes a noise at the sight of it that Tommy’s only ever heard from him in bed. He glances at Adam out of the corner of his eye and says, “Are you sure you want to eat it? You sound like you might have more fun fucking it.”

Adam huffs. “Shut up! I just know how to enjoy myself, _Tommy._ ”

Tommy’s not quite done teasing Adam about his apparent love affair with chocolate, but when he opens his mouth, Adam’s already got a bite of cake right there, ready and waiting. It’s rich and sweet and _rich_ , the sharp taste of liqueur cutting through the chocolate, and Tommy has to admit, it’s pretty amazing. The look on Adam’s face is even better as he watches Tommy eat, heated and happy, and as soon as Tommy swallows Adam darts forward to kiss him deep, licking the sweetness right off his tongue.

They finish the dessert together, and eventually the waiter comes back to take away the empty plate and wish them a good night. Adam thanks him and pulls out his wallet, slipping him a bill Tommy doesn’t see. As the waiter walks away, Tommy sits up from where he’s been slouched, hands over his full, tight stomach, and asks, “Don’t we need a check?”

“It’s already taken care of,” Adam says quickly. “Come on, ready to go?”

Tommy pushes himself up out of the chair and says, “Man, it feels weird to leave without paying. I guess being famous isn’t all bad, huh?”

Adam narrows his eyes, and for a second Tommy thinks he’s going to ask what Tommy means. But Adam lets it go, placing a gentle guiding hand in the small of Tommy’s back and ushering him out of the restaurant.

He’s whispering something in Tommy’s ear about making out in the back row of the movie theater when the flashing lights and shouts start up, and Tommy looks around, confused, wondering what’s happened. It takes a moment for him to understand, and when he does, he’s suddenly right back in the bathroom stall, wishing he could disappear into the ground.

Apparently, _they_ happened.

“Tommy!”

“Tommy, look at me!”

“Look here, Tommy!”

“Tommy, are you gay?”

“Tommy, look here!”

“How long have you been together, Tommy?”

“Tommy!”

“Is this just for the publicity?”

“Were you sleeping with Adam before Jacob left him?”

“Tommy, are you living with him?”

“Tommy! Is Adam really a bad fuck?”

“Are you together or just fucking? Tommy!”

“Tommy, have you heard the things Jacob Cruz has said about you?”

“Tommy! How long have you been gay? Was it the kiss at the AMAs that turned you?”

“Did you let your relationship leak to promote Adam’s new single? Tommy?”

“Tommy!”

Adam’s yelling something, drawn up to his full height and leaning forward like he wants to jump the guys, and Tommy thinks he should probably grab Adam’s arm, hold him back...but he feels frozen, like the assault of light and sound is holding him in place, and he just wraps his arms around himself and stares at the sidewalk and tries not to hear. Adam pushes out in front of Tommy, shielding him from the crazy flashes, and as soon as Adam puts himself into the war zone, Tommy’s invisible shackles fall apart. He springs up and clings to Adam’s shoulder, and suddenly he’s shouting to be heard over the deafening paparazzi and over Adam’s booming voice, and they asked all those questions but none of them seem to be listening.

“Step back,” Adam says in a loud, commanding voice. “Let us through, get the fuck back. You know how this works, you got your shots, now let us by.”

“Adam, Adam, come on,” Tommy pleads, tugging on Adam’s arm. The camera flashes are burning his eyes and he can’t see at all; he closes his eyes instead and everything gets louder. Tommy puts his head down and lets his hair fall in front of his face and wishes he could put his hands over his ears.

“Come on,” one of the photographers shouts. “Pose for us, give him a kiss. Come on!”

Adam starts forward, fuming. “We’re not fucking posing for you, now let us through.”

Tommy’s left adrift without Adam at his side. The cameras are flashing from all sides, and the noise increases again. He feels like he’s drowning, like Adam’s tossed him over the side of a ship. He flails out wildly for Adam but Adam’s too far away and he’s so very alone.

Suddenly a very short man wearing a red baseball cap is pressed up against Tommy’s side, talking in a piercing nasal voice right in his ear and shoving a business card into his hand. “You wanna make some money off this, pal? I can give a hundred for pics, more for skin, nudes’ll getcha the most. Leaks, too, if you can get ‘em. Gimme a call, yeah? You know you’re gonna need the cash when he picks his next fuck of the week.”

Tommy opens his mouth, a reply caught in his throat, but he can’t get past the immediate hurt, the hot flush that crosses his cheeks. He wishes he was back inside, or even better, at home with his blankets pulled up over his head, blocking out all this light and all this sound. He mutters something under his breath, and the little guy disappears into the crowd as if he’d never been there at all.

Tommy’s eyes are finally getting adjusted to the constant flashes, and he can see some of the paparazzi now. He can see their fat, ugly faces, and they’re definitely close enough to see his. Tommy’s heart pounds desperately, and he suddenly realizes he’s panting, gasping for air. He reaches up and roughly combs his bangs over his face. He can’t look at them any longer. He can’t let them look at him. Not like this.

Suddenly he feels Adam’s hand closing around his own, warm and big and firm. Tommy squeezes tight--if he’s going to disappear, if the earth is going to swallow him up, he wants Adam to come with him. He needs Adam with him.

“Come on,” Adam says, low and right in Tommy’s ear. “Follow me, stay close.”

Adam pushes through the paparazzi like a bodyguard, or maybe a football player. Tommy’s never cared much for sports, but right now, he can understand the usefulness of learning to fight and defend from an early age. He tries to stay in Adam’s wake, stuck close to his side and still clinging to his hand, and he follows Adam’s lead and doesn’t say anything in response to the nasty questions thrown his way.

Finally, _finally_ , they reach Adam’s car and Adam pushes him in, slams the door, and suddenly it’s completely silent. Tommy sits in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the windshield, and doesn’t react when Adam’s door opens and closes as he gets in. They both sit there, just catching their breath.

Tommy stares out the tinted windows at the slowly retreating mob, and for the first time, it sinks in that this isn’t over--this is just the beginning. Every one of those cameras is full of pictures, pictures that will spread everywhere by tomorrow like a fucking virus. His arms cross in front of his belly, even though it doesn’t matter now, and he wishes he hadn’t eaten a single bite. He looks fat enough without eating a whole fucking chocolate cake.

He’s still clutching the business card with a sweaty hand, and he looks down at it in horror, feeling sick that anyone could think he would betray Adam like that. He tears it in half, then in half again, over and over until it’s shredded into tiny, unreadable pieces that he brushes into an empty cupholder.

“You still want to go to the movie?” Adam asks quietly.

“Can we... maybe.. just sit here for a while?”

“You want to go home?” Adam asks. “We don’t have to stay out if you don’t want to, we can--”

“Take me home, now, please.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” Adam slams his hands into the steering wheel, hard enough to sound the horn, and Tommy laughs, high and sudden and quickly silenced, almost hysterical. He rakes his nails over his thighs, up and down, wishing he could get at the flesh underneath. His skin feels wrong, itchy and too-tight, and he wants to get home and take a scalding hot shower and burn that grimy feeling right off.

They drive home in silence. When Adam pulls into the driveway and turns off the car, he doesn’t come around to Tommy’s side and open the door for him. He storms into the house and Tommy scrambles to follow, confused now, and worried. He finds Adam in the kitchen, digging through the bottles of vodka and whiskey and scotch until he finds something, and he doesn’t even find a glass, just drinks straight from the bottle. He doesn’t offer any to Tommy, either, and Tommy’s almost ready to seize a bottle of vodka for himself. Blacking out sounds pretty good right now.

“I can’t believe... I can’t believe they did that. I can’t believe they fucking _ambushed_ us.”

“Adam...”

“See if I ever go back to that fucking restaurant again. They should have better security than that. We were hardly even out the door. Probably being paid off to let those goddamn cockroaches set up camp. I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

“Adam, I...”

“ _What?_ God, Tommy, what?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he shouts. “I’m sorry. I know it was just because of me, and I never wanted to make you look bad, and I’m just... I’m sorry. Adam. I’m sorry I ruined it. It was... it was good, and I fucked it up.”

Adam throws the bottle against the kitchen wall. Glass shatters down onto the granite counter top, dripping with amber liquid, and the strong, acrid smell of alcohol floods the air. “ _No_ , Tommy,” he says fiercely. “Don’t you _dare_ fucking apologize for this.”

Tommy’s mouth opens and closes. He feels like a fish out of water. He’s never seen Adam this angry, and he can’t figure out exactly what’s making Adam so mad, either. He’s scared it might be him, might be the way he froze in front of all those cameras. “I... I don’t... Then I don’t know what you want me to do. I didn’t know.”

“This is about _them_ , not you,” Adam says firmly. “I want them to leave us alone. I want to have one fucking thing in my life that’s just _mine_ , not part of my _image_. Is that really so much to ask?”

“But I’m part of your image,” Tommy says. “Aren’t I? If you’re with me?”

“But us being together can’t be about that,” Adam tells him. “It has to be about _us_ , and we have to protect that. We can’t let them in--they’ll destroy whatever we have.”

“Secrets don’t work,” Tommy replies. “We tried that, remember?”

“I don’t want to keep you secret. I want to show you off. I want everyone to know that they can’t touch you, because you’re mine. I want you _safe_.” He comes over to Tommy and takes his hand. Tommy’s heart swells, and he does feel safe with Adam touching him now. He feels safe with Adam, always. He takes a step forward, pushing himself into Adam’s arms until they come up around his back and hold him. He wants to tuck his head up under Adam’s chin, but Adam keeps leaning back, making Tommy look into his eyes. Adam’s very serious and solemn, but Tommy sees an intensity in his dark eyes that draws him in.

“I’ve had relationships destroyed before because of the whole fame thing, and you have to know: it doesn’t really go away. You either learn to deal with it or...”

Adam trails off, and Tommy takes a shuddering breath. He’s glad Adam didn’t finish that sentence. He doesn’t want to know the ‘or.’

“I just...I need to know that you want this enough to take on everything that comes with it. If it’s...if _we_ ’ _re_ really worth it,” Adam admits, like a confession long held back.

Tommy meets his eyes and tells him the plain truth. “You’re worth everything to me.”

And for the first time since the restaurant, since chocolate cake and sweet kisses, Adam smiles. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Tommy tucks his head against Adam’s chest and murmurs, “Remember the night after the AMAs?”

“How could I forget? When things started canceling left and right, and...god, I thought it was all over, right there, before it even started.”

“It was the first time I felt like I was really a part of something. Like I _mattered._ And I knew I would be performing with you as long as you’d let me. I was sure then. And yeah. I’m sure now.”

“Well, I’m sorry about tonight. I wish my life wasn’t so... scary, for you. Because I want you with me, and I hate that it makes you uncomfortable. But... something else was wrong tonight, wasn’t it? At the restaurant? Tell me what happened, Tommy. Let me fix it.”

Tommy pulls out of Adam’s grasp and crosses his arms low over his stomach. “It was... a lot of things. There were just... people. Everywhere. And I hate them watching me. I hate them looking at me; I don’t want them to see me.”

“Who was looking at you?” Adam asks gently.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says nervously. He shrugs one shoulder. He’s cold now that Adam isn’t wrapped around him. “The waiter. The other people. They were all watching me, and I felt so... _ugly_ , you know?” Adam opens his mouth but he doesn’t say anything. Tommy takes a deep breath and barrels on. “And I kept making it worse. I made such a mess, and I broke everything, and I kept eating that fucking cake and... and drinking, and... And I was all over you, and you were so... _perfect_ , and I just ruined everything and they could all _see_.”

“Tommy,” Adam breathes. “Listen to me. You looked amazing tonight. I wanted to show you off, you look so beautiful.”

“I just don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be _anyone_ ’ _s_ boyfriend. Especially not yours.”

“And you said I think too much,” Adam says flatly.

Tommy opens his mouth to answer, but then he looks up and sees the arch of Adam’s eyebrow and the quirk of his lips, and he laughs despite himself. “Fucking brain, I wish I could turn it off.”

“You can,” Adam tells him simply.

“What?”

“I’ll help you. It’s like... focusing on something small, you know? Making that small thing the biggest thing in your mind. Letting everything else slip away until that little thing is all you can see.”

“What kind of little thing?” Tommy asks.

“I don’t know. For me, it’s thinking about a vacation on the beach, like... sometimes I remember going to Cabo, and that relaxes me. I might be on stage in front of thousands of people, but in my head I’m sitting by the ocean, drinking Mai Tais. What makes you calm down and feel safe?”

“You.”

Adam glances down at Tommy, and he sounds almost surprised when he speaks. “Me? Like how?”

Tommy chews on his lip and wonders if he should tell Adam what he’s thinking, or if it’s maybe too weird. But Adam’s face is open, and his eyes are kind, and he’s not the type to judge. “Like...when you gave me a bite of your food. The first time. I was freaking out, and then you did that, and all of a sudden I was okay. That’s fucking weird, right? I dunno, whatever. It just happened, I didn’t control it.”

“Okay,” Adam says. “So... use me. Think about me, about sharing my food, or my house, or whatever it is that makes you calm. Or look at me, even. If that helps, just look at me. You don’t ever have to be alone, Tommy. We’re in this thing together.”

“But it freaks me out, when there’s all those people. I can’t... focus, I can’t think about anything. It’s like... It’s just overwhelming, you know?” He takes a step back and hits the wall. He flattens himself against it. It feels good to have something solid and sturdy behind him, now that Adam’s too far away to touch.

“So don’t look away. They’re nothing, they don’t matter. This is what’s important, right here. You and me.”

Tommy takes a deep breath. “Okay. Don’t look away.”

“Right.” Adam takes a half-step in Tommy’s direction, then seems to think better of it. Tommy’s entire body is calling out to Adam, trying to pull him closer, but he can’t make himself move away from the wall. Finally, Adam reaches a decision and comes right up to Tommy, looming over him and trapping him against the wall. Their shoes touch. Tommy’s heart pounds, and he stares straight ahead at Adam’s mouth.

“I want to try something,” Adam whispers. Tommy stares at the freckles on his lower lip. “Are you freaking out right now?”

Tommy shakes his head. He’s not lying, but he’s not quite sure how he feels, either.

“Take a deep breath,” Adam instructs. Tommy does. Adam’s hands come up and bracket Tommy’s throat; his thumbs pushed up against the underside of Tommy’s jaw. He slowly forces Tommy’s head up and back, pressed against the wall with his neck elongated. Tommy can see Adam’s eyes, now, and his pupils are blown wide. Adam’s blocking out the light from the kitchen, and he looks so dark and powerful. Tommy takes another deep breath that shudders on its way out.

“Don’t look away,” Adam murmurs. “Tommy, don’t look away from me. Don’t let anything distract you.”

Adam’s hands twist inward and move down, layering his thumbs over Tommy’s throat, and he doesn’t apply enough pressure to cut off Tommy’s air, but Tommy starts breathing faster anyway. The thought is there, now, and he wants it. Clings to it. His eyes slip closed.

“Tommy,” Adam says. “Are you calm now?” His voice is rough and low, and his breath gusts across Tommy’s lips. Tommy blinks, and Adam’s leaning over him, too close now for Tommy to see clearly. He closes his eyes again. It feels better this way.

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes.

Tommy arches his back away from the wall, pushing himself into Adam’s hands, and then his knees start shaking--he feels like Jell-o, squeezing and slipping through Adam’s fingers. He sinks down as far as Adam’s hands around his throat will allow him and lets himself float, the whole world narrowed to the breath rasping loud through his lips and Adam’s fingers digging in.

*

Tommy melts in Adam’s hands, like Adam’s flipped a switch. He drifts away from the wall, leaning into Adam’s grasp, until Adam has him close enough that he can touch his lips to Tommy’s and whisper, “That’s good, Tommy, that’s good. Keep your eyes closed. Relax.”

“Yes,” Tommy breathes, air hissing through his teeth. Adam kisses him again, needing to feel that breath leave Tommy’s body, needing to feel him gasp, and Tommy’s lips are slack; he doesn’t kiss Adam back, and Adam’s not sure if he can.

He pushes Tommy back against the wall and Tommy’s head bumps the plaster. A flash of intense heat shoots through Adam’s gut when Tommy winces and jerks in Adam’s hands.

“Shhh,” Adam says, stamping down hard on that burn of arousal and staring at Tommy with wide eyes. It’s a little terrifying, that reaction. He wants to pull his hands away and wrap Tommy up in a big, fluffy blanket and never let anything hurt him again. But more than that, he wants to tighten his grip, watch Tommy’s face go tense and hear those breathy little gasps of pain escaping him. He wants more. He wants to push. And that scares him. He keeps a tight hold on his own desires for now. This is about Tommy.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to take a shaking breath. “Tommy... I _want..._ Is this okay? Are you okay?”

Slowly -- _very_ slowly -- Tommy nods. He doesn’t open his eyes, and his voice, when he speaks, is almost unrecognizable, almost like Tommy’s in a trance, pitched low and smooth and so slow. It’s like speaking in slow motion.

“Good. It’s...good, it’s better,” Tommy says. Then he takes a deep breath, air stuttering through the pressure of Adam’s fingers, and lets just one word come out on the exhale. “ _More._ ”

A shiver races down Adam’s spine and he finds himself nodding, even though Tommy can’t see him. “Okay, baby, that’s it, just let the quiet surround you. Listen to my voice and block out everything else. Just hear me now. Don’t open your eyes, just listen to me, Tommy.”

Tommy takes a long, shuddering breath that Adam can feel through the palms of his hands. He wonders if he’s holding Tommy too tightly, if he should ease up and let Tommy breathe normally, and for just a second he starts to loosen his grip on Tommy’s neck. But in the next moment, Tommy winces again and gives a high whine, pressing up toward Adam’s fingers, chasing the touch, and Adam can’t, he _can_ ’ _t_ ignore what every instinct in his body is telling him to do. He tightens his grip, pressing hard, too hard into Tommy’s fragile flesh, and Tommy relaxes again, his face going easy and peaceful even as he struggles for breath.

“Okay, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Yes,” Tommy says, with just the barest hint of sound. “Yes, Adam.” Adam watches Tommy’s lips press together, forming his name, and he kisses them, so very soft and gentle. He doesn’t want to break Tommy’s fragile mood, not while he’s so inexplicably... perfect. Beautiful.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, then moves to kiss Tommy’s cheek, the side of his nose, his eyelid. He presses closer with his body until they’re touching from chest to thigh, and Tommy’s sandwiched between Adam and the wall. He takes some of Tommy’s weight with his body and lifts one hand to brush Tommy’s hair out of the way.

Tommy’s lips are still moving minutely, repeating Adam’s name over and over again in near-silent whispers, and this time Adam bares his teeth and scrapes them across Tommy’s lower lip. He pulls away almost immediately, before Tommy has time to react.

“You feel me touching you, Tommy? Feel my body, listen to my voice.”

“Yes,” Tommy whispers.

“This is everything right now. I’m everything. I’m all that’s here. I’m all that’s touching you.”

“You’re everything.”

“That’s right, Tommy, that’s good.” He brushes his lips over Tommy’s, the mere hint of a kiss. “I want you to keep your eyes closed, okay? Don’t open your eyes, Tommy. Just listen to me, just listen to my voice.”

“Yes.”

Adam takes a careful step backwards, slowly peeling himself away and putting some space between them. Tommy sways forward, surprised by the sudden space. Adam slides his hand down from Tommy’s throat, stroking over his shoulder and all the way down to his hand.

“I’ve got you, Tommy. I’ve got you. Don’t open your eyes.”

For a long moment, all Adam can do is watch Tommy and remind himself to breathe. He’s never seen Tommy look like this. He’s never seen _anyone_ look like this. It’s in the way Tommy is trying so hard to hold himself still and not quite managing it, shaking just a little as he leans against the wall, in the rasp of his breathing, too loud, too desperate...and more than anything in the look on his face. Tommy hardly looks like himself, so unselfconscious, so calm, so...open. Even his eyelids are still, his eyes not moving behind them, as if he’s afraid Adam will know. It makes Adam want to test that openness, see just how far he can take Tommy before he starts to break. His hands clench into fists, nails digging into his palms, and he bites down hard into his own lip. Careful. He has to be careful.

“Tommy,” he says softly. “Listen to my voice. Come to me, Tommy. Come forward.”

Tommy seems hesitant to move, and certainly wary of leaving the safety of the wall and its known boundaries, but he clenches his eyes shut and extends a hand into the air in front of him and takes a step towards Adam. Then another. And Adam opens his arms and lets Tommy fall into them. Tommy’s hands are braced on Adam’s chest, but he doesn’t cling, like Adam expected; his palms are flat against Adam’s shirt, and his index fingers rub at the fabric a little, but otherwise he’s completely still. Adam reaches between them and closes his hands around Tommy’s wrists. He lets his gaze fall away from Tommy’s face to stare down at their hands, at the way his fingers wrap so easily around Tommy’s wrists, his black-painted nails cutting a stark contrast against Tommy’s pale skin. He tightens his grip experimentally, until he can feel the delicate bones straining under his hands, and he wonders if -- _hopes_ there will be bruises, the shapes of his fingers pressed into Tommy like a tattoo. He can feel Tommy’s pulse pounding away under his skin, racing, like an echo of his own heartbeat, a quick stuttering rhythm in his chest that makes him think _yes_ and _right_ and _more_ as he drags his eyes back up to watch Tommy’s face.

“Come with me, Tommy. I’ve got you, it’s okay. Just follow me.” Adam takes a careful step back and Tommy mirrors him, and though it’s obviously a struggle for him, he does it all without opening his eyes. Adam turns, facing forward, and pulls Tommy with him, leading him now rather than guiding, with one hand still clasped tight around Tommy’s wrist.

Eventually, they make it to the staircase. Adam takes a step up, then turns around and pulls Tommy within reach of the bottom step. “Up the stairs now, baby,” he whispers, leaning in. “Take a step. I’ve got you.”

Tommy’s wrist twists in Adam’s hand, breaks free of his grip only so that Tommy can grab him, cling tightly as he lifts his foot and feels for the first step. He stumbles a bit, and Adam half expects him to open his eyes, at least to find his footing. But Tommy just squeezes his eyes closed tighter and clutches at Adam until he’s safe on the step, and Adam watches him with wide eyes and a pleased smile he wishes Tommy could see.

“That’s right, baby, that’s so good. So good for me. Come on, another one just like that,” Adam says, taking another backwards step up and waiting for Tommy to follow. They make it all the way to the top in the same slow fashion, and Adam’s breathing hard at the end, like he’s been running instead of taking one careful step at a time. He has a feeling he’s never going to look at these stairs in the same way ever again.

It’s much easier to navigate to the bedroom, but Tommy doesn’t stop clinging to Adam’s hand. Adam leads him to the center of the room and kisses him gently on the mouth, dipping his tongue between Tommy’s lips just for a taste of him. Tommy takes a deep breath and stands at ease, finally, and he lets Adam’s hand go when Adam pulls away and leaves him alone.

“Stay there,” he says. “Don’t move, baby. You’re so good, Tommy, just stay exactly like that.”

Adam takes his eyes off Tommy for the first time in... a long time. It feels like he’s been watching Tommy all night, all _week_. Cataloguing every expression, every reaction, especially now that Tommy’s calm and obedient in a way Adam’s never seen him before. Adam sinks to his knees as quietly as he can to get a few things out of the bottom drawer of his dresser, but he can’t help glancing back over his shoulder, just for a second, to see if Tommy’s still exactly where Adam left him.

He is. Of course he is. Adam smiles. He takes a cloth blindfold out of the drawer, and then finds a set of padded leather cuffs buried among a mix of toys, props, and gag gifts. It’s been years since he’s used them; they’re not the fashion accessories he likes to wear himself. Brad picked these out, and Adam’s almost positive they haven’t been around any other pair of wrists since. They’re still soft and pliable when Adam bends them, so he pushes any worry for Tommy’s wrists aside and slides the drawer closed. He takes off his shoes while he’s down on the floor, and pads around Tommy to the bed in just his socks, as quiet as he can be, to set down the cuffs where he’ll need them later.

Tommy’s head turns just slightly, tracking Adam’s movement around the room while his eyes flutter wildly behind his closed lids, but otherwise he remains completely still, all the tension gone from his body. Adam steps up behind him and stretches the blindfold between his hands, pulling the fabric taut.

“Keep your eyes closed, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna blindfold you now, so you don’t have to worry about not peeking. Okay? You’re doing so good. Stay still, baby. Just focus on my voice.” He fits the blindfold over Tommy’s eyes, ties it tightly around the back of his head, and Tommy shivers, dipping down a little when Adam stops pulling the laces.

“Stay _still_ , Tommy,” Adam tells him, pitching his voice a little harder, a little more demanding. The harshness of his tone shocks even Adam, but Tommy’s already so far gone. Adam doesn’t want him to zone out completely, too deep in wherever he’s gone to in his own head to even follow Adam’s commands. “You’re okay, you’re fine now. You can wait for me.”

And the beautiful thing is, Tommy _does_. His back straightens, and his stance gets stronger, more solid, and he even raises his chin, for maybe the first time all night. Adam flashes back to the restaurant, to how Tommy had looked sitting across the table from him, glancing everywhere at nothing, biting his lip raw, hands fidgeting endlessly, and he can’t help it, has to step forward and press the length of his body up against Tommy’s back, encompass Tommy’s body in his arms and just hold tight. Tommy is so different from anyone Adam’s ever been with before, even Brad, who liked to play these kinky games with handcuffs and blindfolds. Tommy’s not... _easy_ , in the way they were, confident in their own lives, their own bodies, their own desires. Instead, he’s a challenge, a puzzle to be solved. Adam tilts his head down to lick a kiss into Tommy’s neck. He wants that challenge. He wants to open Tommy up and see everything he’s been hiding inside, all the bits and pieces he’s shoved away into the deepest corners of his mind. He wants Tommy to tell him all the ways he’s not good enough, and he wants to touch him until he can’t even remember what they were, mind full of nothing but _Adam._

“I’m going to take your clothes off now. You don’t need them. You never need them with me. You never need to hide from me.” The words spill out of them before he can even think, but Adam finds that he does want this from Tommy; he desperately wants Tommy to feel comfortable with him.

He curls his hands in the bottom of Tommy’s shirt and slowly draws it upward, and Tommy lifts his arms for Adam to pull the shirt off and toss it aside. Tommy’s arms drop back down to his sides immediately after, and it’s the first time Adam’s ever seen Tommy not try to cover himself. Adam has free reign to touch Tommy’s bare stomach, his chest, his nipples, _fuck_ , his nipples, tiny and round under Adam’s fingertips, slowly hardening into points as Adam teases and teases over them in little circles. Tommy’s head falls back onto Adam’s shoulder, his lips parting in a moan, and Adam looks down and watches as he draws his fingers tight in twin pinches. It’s barely enough to hurt, he thinks, but he can still feel the reaction in Tommy’s body, the jerk of his muscles as Adam toys with him. It feels amazing, manipulating Tommy like this, and he doesn’t want to stop just yet, not quite ready to move on to the rest of his plans. Instead, he pulls his fingers away, just for a second, just long enough to drag his tongue over the pads of his thumbs, wetting them one after the other. He brings them back to Tommy’s hard nipples quickly, rubbing the bit of slickness over the sensitive flesh there and then moving his hands away. And when he leans down over Tommy’s shoulder and blows a cool breath over Tommy’s chest, he’s rewarded with the most delicious shiver he’s ever felt, a tremble that goes all the way through Tommy’s body and right into Adam, making his cock twitch into hardness and his breath catch in his throat.

Adam brings his hand to his mouth, licks his palm thoroughly, then reaches around Tommy and slides his hand beneath Tommy’s tight waistband. He gropes for Tommy’s cock, holds it in his palm, rubs the slickness over him as much as he can in the hot, confined space, then quickly withdraws his hand and yanks Tommy’s pants down around his thighs. Tommy gasps and jerks forward, like he wants to cover himself, protect his cock from the rush of cold air, but his hands don’t stray from his sides. He holds them in loose fists, and though his thighs tense with the effort of keeping still and his chest heaves as he gasps, Tommy doesn’t move from his position at all.

Adam licks the shell of Tommy’s ear and blows across it. Tommy shivers again. “So good, baby,” Adam whispers. “You’re doing so well. Wanna tell me how it feels?” Tommy gasps and shakes his head, as Adam had expected, and he reaches down again to graze his nails lightly over the length of Tommy's cock. “That's okay, baby, you don't have to say a word. It feels good though, doesn't it? You like me touching you like this.”

The last words are a statement, not a question, and Tommy just lets out a shaking breath and presses back closer into Adam, so willing, so ready. Waiting.

Adam hooks his thumbs into Tommy’s pants again where they’re cutting into the outsides of his thighs, and sinks down to his knees, making sure to stay pressed as close to Tommy as he can as he drags the jeans to the floor. Tommy’s right hand flexes open, his fingers stiff with tension. Adam leans forward and rubs his cheek against the curve of Tommy’s ass, around to his hip, and he watches Tommy relax, watches his fingers curl again. Adam kisses the crease where ass meets thigh and murmurs, “That’s good, baby. You’re okay.”

He touches Tommy’s ankle next, guides his foot up carefully to pull the jeans off, then repeats with his other foot, and throws the bundle of denim across the room, well out of the way. He's left on his knees behind Tommy, his hands running up and down Tommy's legs, feeling for himself the effort Tommy's putting into staying upright. He moves a hand to skate up the inside of Tommy's thighs, slowly, inexorably, until he's reaching between his legs and grabbing his balls in the palm of his hand, not holding tight enough to hurt, but not giving Tommy a chance to move either. He watches as Tommy's knees start to buckle at the touch, putting more pressure on his balls as Adam doesn't give an inch, and grins when Tommy straightens right back up at the spark of pain. It only takes one hand, one touch to have Tommy doing exactly what Adam wants, and the head rush he gets from that knowledge is incredible, like being high. Better.

He’s never felt so in control, not even with Brad, who played at surrender, pretended to give in when Adam held him down, and it’s addictive to know Tommy’s at his mercy. No one’s let him do this before. Tommy’s listening to him, following his instructions, and all his reactions are genuine. There’s no pretense of a game, with Tommy. It’s all real, and it’s _thrilling_.

He tightens his hand slightly, slowly, carefully, and pulls just a little. Just enough. Tommy whines and Adam looks up to see his shoulders hunch forward, and his hands clench into fists, and Adam can’t stamp down the impulse to open his mouth wide and scrape his teeth across Tommy’s ass. He gets a mound of flesh between his teeth and bites down, gently at first, until Tommy moans. Adam shifts his stance and moves his mouth to the other cheek, and this time he doesn’t restrain himself. He bites down hard and Tommy’s hips rock forward, pulling his balls tight, stretched between his legs in Adam’s fist.

“Fuck, Adam,” Tommy gasps, panting hard now. Adam steadies him with a hand on his hip, and Tommy stands up straighter, easing the tug on his balls.

“Breathe, Tommy,” Adam tells him, and waits for Tommy to take three deep, shaking breaths. Adam watches the curve of his spine, looks for the moment when the tension disappears from Tommy’s shoulders. He wants Tommy completely relaxed, unprepared, before he makes his next move.

When Adam’s finally satisfied, he drags his hand around from Tommy’s hip and slides his fingers into the crease of his ass, pulling his cheeks apart just enough for Adam to lean in and lick a hot, wet stripe over Tommy’s asshole. He laves his tongue there, making Tommy wet and listening to his careful breaths go wild above him, and then he sits back on his heels and blows cool air over the skin shining with spit. Tommy’s thighs shake and his knees dip and Adam’s hand goes tight around his balls, eliciting a loud, surprised cry of Adam’s name. Tommy’s knees buckle completely then and he goes down fast--but Adam can almost predict it happening. He sees Tommy fall in his mind’s eye, and he’s there before it even happens, with his arm around Tommy’s waist and one curved under his thighs, cradling him.

“Adam, Adam,” Tommy says quickly, flailing his hands around and nearly hitting Adam in the face before he figures out how to wrap his arm around Adam’s neck. Adam sits with Tommy in his arms, sprawled across his lap, for a long moment before leaning down to nuzzle Tommy’s cheek.

“It’s okay, baby. I got you. I said I would, didn’t I? I told you. I’ve got you. You’re okay. Tommy, you’re okay.”

“Yes,” Tommy whispers. “Yes. Adam.”

“Yeah, that’s it, baby. Shhh.” Tommy's hands are still clutching at the air, and Adam can practically see his eyes open and searching under the blindfold, trying to get his bearings. He leans down and presses a deep kiss to Tommy's lips, slow and steadying, and he hardly pulls back to whisper into Tommy's mouth. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m looking out for you.”

Tommy relaxes in Adam’s arms, and he feels so small, fits perfectly in Adam’s lap like this. Adam can hold him, carry him, even. Adam can _take care_ of him. No one else has given him this much, and he wants to keep chasing it, this rush of nurturing and love. Tommy’s the only boy to let Adam really take care of him in the ways Adam knows he’ll be good at, the only one to let Adam do the things he’s always _thought_ he’d be able to do.

Tommy pants against Adam's lips, his body sprawled in Adam's arms, and suddenly Adam needs to prove to Tommy that he's telling the truth, needs to show Tommy how secure he can be even after a fall. He slides one arm under Tommy's knees and the other around his shoulders and stands, lifting him as easy as anything, Tommy resting heavy and warm against his chest. Adam pauses a moment before moving, just holding Tommy close, and Tommy's arms go around his neck tentatively. Adam smiles and kisses Tommy's cheek and says, "That's right, that's good. You can always hold onto me, baby. You never have to ask."

Adam carries him over to the bed and sets him down carefully. Tommy flattens his hands on either side of his body, feeling out towards the edges of the bed, but Adam grabs his wrists and halts his progress before he finds them. “You’re okay, Tommy. Trust me. I’m not gonna put you anywhere you’re not safe,” he says, and Tommy’s hands clench once and relax, waiting under Adam’s grip.

Adam stretches Tommy’s arms up to the corners of the bed and grabs the soft leather cuffs to hold him there. They’re heavily padded, so Adam doesn’t worry about buckling them too tight--he pulls Tommy as spread-eagled as he can go, limbs taut, and binds him there so he can’t move at all. As soon as Tommy’s held in place by his wrists and ankles, Adam backs off, gets off the bed completely, and watches Tommy’s body. He watches Tommy relax into the bonds, sees the limp curl of his fingers and a slow roll of his neck as he settles into the pillow, watches goosebumps spread over his exposed skin. This is something he’s familiar with, finally something he’s done before. Spread a boy out and tease him until he comes; this is something Adam knows how to do. He reaches down to touch, fingers brushing all the most sensitive places -- the back of Tommy’s knee, his stomach, the soft, pale skin of his underarms, and watches Tommy react to each, startled muscles twitching and breath catching.

Adam gets to his knees next to the bed and reaches out to turn Tommy’s head to face him, feeling somehow that it’s important, even though Tommy can’t see. He keeps his hand on Tommy’s cheek as he speaks. “Nothing can touch you here, Tommy. Only me. My hands, my tongue. My voice. That’s all you need, isn’t it? Just me.”

Tommy smiles slowly, nuzzling into Adam’s touch. “Yes,” he whispers, so soft Adam reads the word off his lips more than hears it.

“Want me to touch you more?”

“ _Yes_.” This time it’s a bit louder, more desperate, and Tommy’s hips move restlessly on the bed, his still-hard cock looking for friction, for heat.

Adam stands up again, slowly so Tommy won’t startle, and leans over him to drag his lips along the inside of Tommy’s arm. Tommy shivers, and his arm jerks tight, pulled taut towards the corner of the bed. Adam pokes his tongue out and licks along the same path, leaving a wet stripe following the curve of Tommy’s bicep. He imagines he can taste the colors inked into Tommy’s skin and smiles, ending in a kiss near Tommy’s elbow.

Tommy makes a soft, wordless noise and turns his head to the opposite side, away from Adam, exposing the long, thick tendons in his neck. He’s flushed pink, warm, and Adam has to duck down to kiss him there. He pulls Tommy’s skin between his lips and sucks gently, almost tasting the blood pulsing through Tommy’s veins. He wants to bite, and he stamps down the urge to laugh at himself for being so turned on by a vampire cliché, but it’s so exciting, having Tommy’s life bared for him, offered up like it is for Adam to do whatever he wants. He breaks the seal of his lips and grazes his teeth over the mark he left with his tongue. He doesn’t need to bite or break the skin to feel that power, especially with how strongly Tommy reacts to him, how he shudders and gasps, how his hips twist as he searches for contact.

By the time he pulls back, Tommy’s skin is already darkening, mottled red and purple in the shape of Adam’s mouth. It sends a rush of heat all through him, seeing his mark on Tommy like that, and he traces the skin with his fingertips carefully.

“You bruise so easily...” he muses aloud, and Tommy moans wordlessly and pushes his head back on the pillow, baring his neck as if asking for more. Adam draws his hand up Tommy’s chest and fits it around Tommy’s neck again, not hard, not squeezing, just _there,_ letting Tommy feel the touch and enjoying the sight. Tommy is so much smaller than him, he really is, and sometimes Adam really _feels_ that size difference, the power imbalance inherent in just their physicality. It’s so easy for that to bleed over--Tommy _makes_ it so easy. He takes whatever Adam gives him, and Adam wants to give him everything, wants to overwhelm him so completely he doesn’t have room left to think about anything else.

Adam crawls all the way up on the bed, settling between Tommy’s spread legs and leaning over him, drinking in the sight of Tommy’s pale, unmarked skin all laid out for him like an offering. He places his hands on Tommy’s hips, fitting the points of his hipbones in his palms, and touching his thumbs together low on Tommy’s belly. He pushes in a little, feeling Tommy’s body give under the pressure, and slides his hands upward, pressing firmly on the soft parts of his belly, dragging over the bumps of his ribcage. He squeezes his hands around Tommy’s nipples and they rise to points under Adam’s palms, and Tommy squirms restlessly, moaning deep in his throat, but Adam doesn’t stay in one place for long. He continues bringing his hands up to Tommy’s throat and overlaps his thumbs right above Tommy’s Adam’s apple, his fingers curling all the way around to the back of Tommy’s neck. But he doesn’t squeeze until he leans down and fits his mouth over Tommy’s and kisses him deeply, pulling the air from him.

It’s only a few moments, has to be, but the time seems to stretch out endlessly as Adam kisses, squeezes, kisses deeper, squeezes harder. He can feel Tommy starting to go tense under him, his throat working, his head fighting to turn, but Adam doesn’t let go, counting down the seconds until he has to break away. Everything goes hazy, lost in a red-tinted rush of power and pleasure and pride, and it’s hard to focus, almost like he’s the one losing his air. Finally, finally, he forces himself to let go, snatch his hands away and break the seal of their lips and let Tommy breathe.

The second Adam frees him, Tommy’s gasping through parted lips, taking deep, desperate breaths of cool air. Adam watches his chest rise and fall with it, a rhythm that slows over time as oxygen fills his blood again and soothes the burn in his lungs. Finally, Tommy’s face goes calm again, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum. Adam recognizes that face. It’s how Tommy looks after sex, after they’ve worn themselves out and can’t even move yet, floating on the rush, the afterglow. It’s as peaceful as he’s ever seen Tommy look -- as _happy._

He wants to see Tommy’s eyes, suddenly. He wants Tommy to see _him_. He needs that connection now. He brings his hands to Tommy’s face and gently touches the edges of the fabric.

“Close your eyes, baby,” he murmurs. “I want to see you.”

Tommy hums in agreement, his lips quirked up at the corners in a soft smile. Adam pushes the blindfold up off his face and tosses it away, revealing Tommy’s eyes, closed peacefully, unmoving. Adam bends to kiss each eyelid, just the barest touch of his lips, and then he cups Tommy’s cheek in his hand and whispers, “Look at me, Tommy. Open.”

Tommy opens his eyes smoothly and he meets Adam’s gaze immediately, like he already knew exactly where to look. He stares even as Adam kisses him again, this time on the lips, and doesn’t blink when Adam pulls away from him and sits up. Adam unlatches the cuffs around Tommy’s ankles, and then leans over him to take off the ones on his wrists, and Tommy doesn’t even try to move.

“Tommy,” Adam says. He pushes two fingers into Tommy’s open palm, and after a long moment, Tommy’s hand closes around them. “Answer me, Tommy. How do you feel now?”

“Adam...” Tommy breathes.

Adam decides to stick to yes or no questions, at least for now. “Are you calm now?” he asks. “Do you feel better, Tommy? Was that good?”

“ _Yes_.”

Tommy’s eyes slip closed again and his head lolls back against the pillow. Adam drops down on top of him, pressing their bodies together without letting all of his weight rest on Tommy, and cradles the back of Tommy’s head with his hand.

“Tommy. Look at me. Come back to me now, baby. God, I want--Baby, I want to fuck you, I need you, tell me I can fuck you right now, Tommy.”

It takes a moment for Tommy to obey and open his eyes again. His mouth is open and he’s rocking his hips up against Adam’s thigh. “Yes, _please_ , Adam, please.”

Tommy stays quiet and languid through everything, through Adam stripping quickly, through fingering him open and reaching over him for a condom and pushing _in_. It’s the easiest it’s ever been, still tight and perfect but without the resistance that’s been there before, and Adam moans low in his throat and wraps Tommy up tight in his arms when he bottoms out inside him. Tommy watches him the whole time, his eyes almost unnaturally wide, focused entirely on Adam’s face, like it’s all he can see.

It’s strange at first, to be the subject of such intense focus, but Adam can’t look away from Tommy either. They’re locked together, connected in so many ways in this one moment, and Adam adjusts Tommy’s legs around his waist to bring their bodies closer to each other. He wants to feel Tommy’s cock against his belly, wants his hands to slide through the sweat on Tommy’s back. He slides his hands under Tommy, fitting his palms to the contours of Tommy’s shoulders, and Tommy lifts his arms and wraps them around Adam’s neck. It’s the first real movement he’s made since Adam uncuffed him, and it’s _simple_ , but it drives the breath from Adam’s lungs. Tommy’s fingers dig into Adam’s back, clenching with each of Adam’s thrusts, but he never breaks eye contact, not even when Adam reaches between them and wraps his hand around Tommy’s cock, stroking him firmly to the rhythm his hips have set. Tommy comes wet and messy between them, and it just blows his eyes out wider, letting Adam _see_ as the orgasm breaks through him. It’s so intense, so open, so _trusting_ , and finally Adam can’t take it any more, just buries his head in Tommy’s neck and loses himself in quickening thrusts, biting gently into Tommy’s skin again as his own orgasm overtakes him.

Adam cleans them up with the tissues from his nightstand; he doesn’t have the energy for more than that, and Tommy doesn’t seem to mind. Tommy doesn’t seem to want to let Adam go, actually. Adam gathers Tommy in his arms and Tommy tucks himself against Adam’s body, curling into him and fitting his head under Adam’s chin like it’s second nature. He’s breathing deeply, but Adam can tell he’s not sleeping. He kisses Tommy’s hair and waits it out, wondering if Tommy will talk. After a long, long silence, though, Adam begins to worry.

“Tommy?” he asks softly. “You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“I know that was really... It felt really intense,” Adam says, tentative. He takes a breath and holds it, but Tommy’s response takes a while to come.

“Was amazing,” Tommy whispers.

Adam lets out his breath in a huge sigh, ruffling Tommy’s hair where it tickles his mouth. “I’m... glad,” he says awkwardly. “This was good for us. I think... I think this can work for you--for _us_. You know? I think it helps you, right? And me too. I like that you needed me, you know?”

“Mmm,” Tommy says, a happy-sounding hum that buzzes against Adam’s skin. Adam waits, but Tommy just cuddles in closer, settling his head on Adam’s shoulder again.

Adam laughs softly. “Speechless, huh?” he teases, and something in him eases when he feels Tommy smiling against him. For a while, he wasn’t sure if he was going to get Tommy back tonight, back to some kind of awareness. “Wanna sleep?”

“Yes please,” Tommy says, and Adam leans away just for a moment to retrieve a sheet from the floor and pull it over both of them. He hasn’t done any of his nightly routine, hasn’t even brushed his teeth, but nothing in the world could make him get up and leave Tommy alone now. He falls asleep easily, sated, and when he wakes up, Tommy’s still right there in his arms, warm and soft and wearing Adam’s marks on his throat like a badge of honor. He smiles and thinks that he never wants to wake up any other way.

*

Things change after that.

The next two weeks are strange, oddly domestic and yet somehow _different_ on a base, instinctive level. At first Tommy wonders if maybe it’s too much, maybe a little too far from normal, even for them, but mostly he’s just _happy_ , satisfied in a way he’s never been before. He’s never worried less, never smiled more. They fall into a habit, relating to each other in a new way, and it’s not _easy_ , exactly, but it comes to Tommy without a struggle, like the first few times he picked up a guitar. Every day brings something new, and every day it gets easier, more comfortable, more _normal_ , even though Tommy knows it’s not. It’s something he can’t describe, but it doesn’t matter. He’s caught up in it, and whatever Adam does, how it makes Tommy feel, it holds him like he’s caught in a web, not touching the ground and unable to escape. It feels safe. Protective.

It’s not just when they’re having sex, either, which surprises Tommy at first. One day he’s sitting on the couch just watching TV, and Adam comes up behind him and rests his hands on Tommy’s shoulders, slowly sliding them around to ring his neck. It’s such a gentle touch, fingers barely resting on his skin, but it sends shivers all down Tommy’s spine. By the time Adam drifts away again, Tommy’s completely missed the rest of the episode he was watching -- he can’t focus on anything when Adam’s touching him like that. But it’s good. It’s exciting and calming all at once, and it’s really fucking good. He picks up the remote and rewinds, and he watches the rest with his one hand tucked up under his chin, thumb stroking over the place where Adam’s fingers just were.

He keeps expecting to get used to it, this new thing between them, but it’s thrilling every time -- that look in Adam’s eyes, the intent in his movements, the way he can make Tommy react like he’s a puppet on a string. It reminds him of how things are between them on stage, how they’ve been even from the beginning. Up there, Adam is the boss, the one in charge. It’s _his_ show. And Tommy has always been happy to go along, to watch for Adam’s cues and react, whether the signal was something as technical as to turn the reverb up...or to get ready for Adam to kiss his face off. This, what they’re doing now, feels like that. Tommy’s thinking about those days a little differently now. At the time, he’d thought the thrill came from performing, from letting Adam kiss and touch him in front of all those screaming fans. Now, he’s starting to realize that it wasn’t the performance at all. It was the dynamic -- the control. He gets off on it just as hard now, behind closed doors, as he ever did on stage.

He starts looking for ways to chase that feeling more, not just when Adam feels like giving it to him. He hangs up Adam’s clothes and brings him his phone when it rings. He does dishes. He rubs Adam’s shoulders at the end of long work days. They’re the most mundane things in the world, but they feel different now. Exciting. Right.

He can tell exactly the moment that Adam gets what he’s doing. They’re cuddled on the couch, just watching sitcoms and chilling, and Adam sighs and looks down at the empty glass in his hand and makes to get up, get a refill. But before he can stand, Tommy reaches out and takes the glass from his hand. He darts into the kitchen and mixes Adam another cocktail, just the way Adam likes it, and when he comes back to offer Adam the glass, Adam is staring at him with an intense, searching look. Tommy blushes and ducks his face, hiding behind his hair. He wonders if Adam is going to ask him about this. He wonders what he’ll say if he does.

After a moment, Adam reaches out and takes the glass, gesturing for Tommy to come back to his spot snuggled up against Adam’s side. Tommy lets out a breath and settles in close, and Adam’s hand comes to stroke through his hair as he takes a sip of his drink. It’s the most normal thing in the world, should be, but Tommy’s so hard he can’t even think, his heart pounding and his head floating. He hopes Adam never asks him to explain this shit, because he has no idea how he would even start.

But eventually, Tommy’s luck runs out and Adam asks him to talk about it, put his feelings into words, make Adam understand what’s going on in his head. They lay in bed together, quiet, sated, and Adam pets Tommy’s fresh-bruised throat gently, not rushing, just waiting patiently for Tommy to answer.

“Calm,” is the first thing Tommy says, the first word he can identify. “It makes me calm. Like... I can stop worrying because you’re there.”

“You’re getting better,” Adam tells him. “Holding your breath for longer. Getting... calmer. Is it easier now? To let yourself go?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Not easier, just... I can fall farther, and it takes longer to get back up. Like... like you’re lowering me into a well or something, and every day I get deeper and it gets darker, but I know you’re at the top, in that little spot of light, holding the rope. We’re still connected even when I get so deep I can’t see you anymore. I know you’re still there, holding onto me. Does that make sense? I can’t... I don’t know how to describe it.”

Adam is quiet for a long time, just smiling at him. Finally, he takes Tommy in his arms and hugs him tight, and kisses his cheek, and whispers, “You’re amazing. So amazing, Tommy. Sometimes I can’t even believe you.”

Tommy frowns. “I’m telling the truth...” he starts.

“No, baby. I mean I can’t believe you’re here, with me. That you’re mine.”

“Of course I am,” Tommy says, shrugging. “I’ve never felt like this before, like I can... want things, and do things, and not have to worry about what people will think. Because it’s like you worry for me, you know? I know you can do stuff better than me...like, you can _handle_ stuff...so I can just let you do it and not worry about messing shit up.”

Adam doesn’t respond, and Tommy glances over at him quickly. “Fucked up, right?” he asks, more out of self-defense than anything, worried that that was the wrong thing to say.

Adam just shakes his head and says, “No more than me. If you knew how it makes me feel...the things it makes me _want_ , Tommy...”

And Tommy wants to hear about it, he really does. But then Adam is rolling on top of him and kissing him again, and his fingers are going tight under Tommy’s jaw, and soon enough, he forgets about the conversation entirely. They don’t discuss it again.

Then, one day, Adam says, “So I think we should go out tonight.” And just like that, all the fear and worry and insecurity is back like it never left, and Tommy wants more than anything to say no.

“Okay,” he says, but his voice betrays him. Adam gives him a look, the one where he knows Tommy’s not telling him the whole truth. He tells Tommy that it’ll be fine, that they know how to handle things now, that he’ll take care of everything. And when Adam kisses him and slips a gentle hand around his throat, just a reminder, Tommy believes him.

It’s not somewhere so public, so exposed this time. Adam hires a car so they don’t have to drive, and the paparazzi aren’t waiting for them at the front doors of the restaurant. Inside, it’s dark and warm, and it feels _rich_ , though Tommy doesn’t feel underdressed in his tight black pants and black button-down. His shirt is clean and neat, and his nails have a fresh coat of nail polish, and he spent a long time on his makeup, glancing at Adam in the mirror for his approval. Adam, of course, always looks amazing, perfectly dressed for any occasion, and this place seems accustomed to serving famous rockstars. They follow the hostess to a table set against the wall, surrounded by heavy drapes on two sides, almost like they’re in their own little room. Tommy likes it. The table, the restaurant, the clothes... the entire atmosphere Adam’s created by bringing him here.

Adam orders for them both, but really only for himself, just a little bit more than usual. The waiter puts the plates down in the middle of the table, perfect for sharing, but Adam pulls them to his side, takes Tommy’s silverware, leaves him with an empty stretch of table. Tommy inhales slowly and stares at Adam, waiting.

“Put your hands flat on the table,” Adam says quietly. The curtains surrounding them are thick, and though the restaurant is quiet, Tommy doesn’t think there’s any chance they’ll be overheard. He puts his hands on the table and watches as Adam scoops up a forkful of risotto. Adam takes the first bite, and his eyes slip closed, just for a second, as he moans softly at the flavor. Tommy licks his lips. He didn’t eat much during lunch, just a few bites to keep Adam from noticing he wasn’t hungry, and he can’t remember eating breakfast either.

The next bite doesn’t go to Tommy, but the third does. Adam holds out the fork and tells Tommy to lean over the table without moving his hands. He’s not allowed to move his hands at all until their dinner is gone.

It’s strange and almost exhilarating to be fed in public like this, like a child. Tommy keeps glancing out into the darkened dining room, even though he _knows_ they’re secluded enough that no one can see. Every time his attention wavers, Adam snaps his fingers, and the soft, commanding _click_ brings Tommy right back to Adam, his hand holding the fork and his eyes watching Tommy with a dark intensity. He’s enjoying this. Tommy can see it. He’s probably hard under the table right now, Tommy thinks, and his own hands twitch on the table, betraying the urge to reach down and press them into his lap. Adam notices, of course -- Adam notices everything -- and gives Tommy a smirk, like he knows.

Adam stops feeding him and goes back to feeding himself for a few minutes, and Tommy relaxes, watching him. This is so _easy_. He wants every meal to be this way. As long as he can remember, eating has been about having to _decide,_ every fucking bite, constantly torn between what he _wants_ and what he _should_ do, the bite his tongue wants and his beer belly and flabby face don’t even remotely need. Here, now, there is no deciding. There is only Adam, and what Adam gives him. Adam’s expectations, his silent commands. He has been following Adam’s lead for over five years on stage. This is just an extension of that. Natural. Inevitable.

When they get home, Tommy lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and Adam is at his side in an instant, asking if he’s okay, if it was too much, too overwhelming. Tommy presses himself into Adam’s comforting bulk and shakes his head, and wishes he had the right words to explain. It worked. They worked. For the first time since that awful panic attack in the bathroom, Tommy feels like things might be back on track after all. Maybe he can’t be the typical celebrity boyfriend. But this...this he can do. Adam even seems to _like_ it.

They fuck after, in Adam’s bed with the light flickering from a few candles. Adam keeps up a steady stream of murmurs, encouragements, and Tommy lets himself float. This night is what their first date night should’ve been, Adam tells him. This is what Adam had wanted.

Tommy feels even better the next day, more confident in his place in Adam’s life, even though Adam has to go to meetings and leave Tommy alone for most of the afternoon. Tommy waits for him, ready to step back into his role once Adam comes home. But Adam’s riled up when he comes back. He tries to hide it from Tommy, but there’s unmistakable tension around his eyes, in the unhappy set of his mouth. Tommy isn’t sure what Adam expects of him now, isn’t sure how to fix this.

“Can I get you some water?” he asks cautiously. “You want a glass of wine? Maybe--”

“I don’t need to be waited on,” Adam snaps. Tommy cringes, drawing back from Adam a little. He thought he was making Adam feel better, he thought he was _helping_ , but he’s just getting in the way and making everything worse. He nods and looks around the room, casting about for something to distract him, to make him look busy, like he’s not just waiting for Adam’s next words.

But Adam’s next words are kind, and he takes Tommy’s face in his hands, cupping his cheeks gently as he pulls Tommy back, forces their eyes to meet. “It’s okay, baby,” he says softly. “I just meant you don’t have to do things for me. I can get myself a drink. Do you want something?”

“I want to help you,” Tommy says under his breath. “I thought I could help...”

Adam studies him for a long moment, his eyes searching and unreadable. Tommy doesn’t know what Adam sees in him, but it makes Adam drop his hands and sigh. “Okay. Yeah, I’d like a glass of water, and I’d like you to sit with me and watch a movie. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tommy replies quickly, relieved to have a task. He fixes Adam a glass and carries it into the living room, where he finds Adam sprawled on the sofa, waiting with open arms. Tommy gives him the drink and snuggles up with Adam at his back, stroking his hair, kissing the side of his neck, and lets himself stop thinking for a while.

Worn out from his day of interviews, Adam falls asleep quickly when they go to bed, but Tommy isn’t tired. He sits cross-legged on the bed and watches Adam’s chest rise and fall as he breathes deeply, watches his eyelids flutter as he dreams. He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair off Adam’s forehead.

“I know you don’t need me,” he whispers, “but it feels good to pretend for a while.” Adam doesn’t respond, and Tommy’s thankful. He doesn’t like lying to Adam, or hiding from him, but he’s glad Adam couldn’t hear how much Tommy needs him. He doesn’t want to freak Adam out or scare him away. Adam doesn’t need to hear what’s going on in his head.

Tommy wants to try another date, now that he knows what it’s like. He wants to be better for Adam, out in public, and he wants to test himself, push himself until he’s completely comfortable with it. So they go out, and it’s to a club this time, a place Adam loves from his past, somewhere that doesn’t get a lot of rockstar clientele. There are just people, guys like Adam and Tommy used to be, and Tommy indulges Adam’s fantasy, pretending not to be famous.

They lean on the bar and drink until a song comes on that Adam can’t resist, and he pulls Tommy onto the dance floor with him without a word, his eyes telling Tommy everything he needs to know. The idea of dancing at all is foreign to Tommy, and doing it here, in the middle of the crowd, with _Adam_...he can feel the panic starting to rise the second they leave the safety of the bar. But Adam turns around and grabs him by the hips and pulls him in, yanks his hair back so Tommy’s staring right into his eyes, and Tommy gasps when he feels Adam grinding against him, slow and hard. This isn’t like dancing. This is like _fucking_ , and just like that, all Tommy can see and feel and think about is Adam. Nothing else exists. Nothing else matters.

When the next song starts, Adam spins Tommy around and presses against him, front to back, grinding his cock against Tommy’s ass and wrapping his arms around Tommy’s chest. He leans down to speak into Tommy’s ear, loud like a stage whisper to be heard over the music.

“You see that guy over there?” Tommy looks, and catches the eye of a man in tight jeans and a mostly-unbuttoned shirt watching him from across the room. He nods, and Adam continues. “He wants to fuck you.”

For a few seconds, Tommy’s not sure why Adam’s pointing it out. He wonders if Adam wants to invite the guy over, if he wants the guy for himself, but then Adam growls in his ear and it’s clear that Adam doesn’t want the man anywhere close to them.

“He can watch you all he wants, but he’ll never touch you,” Adam tells him. “He thinks he’s being subtle. He thinks you’re up for grabs. Free to anyone who wants you, like a piece of fucking meat. But you’re not free, are you, baby? You’re not for them. You’re for me, just for me.”

The words beat through his brain like the music pounds through his body, and Tommy moans low and presses back against Adam. He wishes he could reply, agree, tell Adam everything his words make Tommy think, but Adam holds him firm and keeps talking, a constant stream of words and orders and ideas that all come down to _mine, mine, mine._

“Tell me you’re mine, baby,” Adam says, but he doesn’t give Tommy a chance to answer. “Tell me you belong to me, you won’t let anyone touch you. _I_ won’t let anyone touch you, Tommy. No one else gets you, ever again.”

It’s over the top and insane and every fucking thing Tommy wants, everything he’s hardly let himself hope for, and when Adam’s hand starts drifting downward, groping at Tommy’s cock right in front of all those glittering eyes, he isn’t so much embarrassed as he is _proud_.

“Keeping you just for me, baby. Don’t want anyone to get their filthy hands on you, not like this, all open for me, all ready for me. You’d let me do it right here, wouldn’t you, show them how hard you come for me, how hard I get you off.”

Tommy hadn’t really thought of it until that moment, but he would, he would do just as Adam says, let everyone see him if that’s what Adam wants. He rocks his hips into Adam’s hand in response, showing that he’s willing, if Adam keeps going. His cock swells, and Adam’s voice in his ear and his cock grinding against Tommy’s ass bring him right to the edge, faster than he thought possible. Maybe he’s been hard for a while and just hasn’t focused on it. Maybe he’s just really fucking easy for Adam. Tommy lets his head fall back against Adam’s shoulder and moans.

Adam turns Tommy to face him again and presses his thigh right in between Tommy’s legs, perfect firm pressure right where Tommy needs it, and he’s rutting up against Adam without hesitating, without even thinking about it. He can _feel_ Adam grinning against the side of his face.

“That’s right, baby, right here, shoot it right here where anyone could see. Show them who you belong to.” Adam’s hands come around to grip his ass, and they give him the leverage to press just a little bit harder, a little bit faster, just enough...and then he’s coming, hard body-wracking pulses that soak his underwear as he buries his face in Adam’s chest, trying to muffle his shouts. Adam holds him tight, and Tommy is grateful -- Adam’s hands are the only reason he’s still on his feet right now, still able to balance on wobbling legs.

Adam keeps them on the floor, keeps them dancing, and Tommy loses track of everything but Adam’s heat, Adam’s body against his own. He’s not sure if Adam comes, if Adam even wanted to, but he seems pleased enough, satisfied and tired by the time they make their way out to the car. Tommy sprawls on the seat in a boneless puddle, his mind still whirling from the dance floor, from that orgasm, right in front of everyone. He’s surprised at how easy it was to let go of the worry, the fear that someone saw him, snapped a photo, is telling the world about it right now. Adam’s pleased with him, and Adam doesn’t seem worried about any consequences, and that’s all that matters. Even the gross, cold stickiness in his jeans doesn’t bother him much. Adam will take care of him when they get home. He always does.

They’re halfway home when Adam glances over at him and laughs ruefully and says, “Sorry about that.”

Tommy shakes himself out of a doze and blinks at Adam. “Sorry?”

“I got kind of carried away in there. Didn’t mean to. I hope you’re not mad or anything?” Adam says, his voice raising, turning it into a question.

“No...I mean, I didn’t...no, not mad,” Tommy stutters. He feels dizzy all of a sudden. Maybe he did have one cocktail too many.

Adam lets out a breath. Then he reaches over and takes Tommy’s hand. “Good. I’m glad. Sometimes I get a little...um...jealous. But I’m just being stupid. Just playing. I don’t want you to think that I actually, you know, think that way.”

“You don’t,” Tommy murmurs, turning it over in his mind. He thought... But apparently he was wrong. It wasn’t real.

“Heat of the moment, you know? Not, like... I wouldn’t actually lock you up and not let anyone see you,” Adam laughs. “It’s just talk. I mean, if it doesn’t bother you, that’s... that’s good. Sometimes it bothers people, when I talk like that. Even though it’s just a game. It’s just sex. You say stupid things like that when you’re having sex, that’s all it is.”

“Okay,” Tommy says slowly. “Well, I’m not mad. You can say whatever you want.” It’s not up to him to dictate what Adam can or can’t do. He kind of thought that was the whole point. Tommy shifts and leans against the window, letting the glass cool his skin. He can’t think of anything Adam said or did to show that they were playing a game. Maybe these sex games are more subtle; Tommy’s never done this before, with his girlfriends. He’s never known how. He’s never learned.

Adam obviously knows how to do this, and Tommy’s fine with not knowing, as long as he has Adam to guide him, let him know when he’s wrong. And the more he thinks about it, he realizes it doesn’t matter if they’re playing a game or not, because his reaction will be the same either way. He’ll give Adam what he wants, _anything_ he wants.

In the end...it’s what he wants, too.

*

Rehearsals for the tour are coming up fast, and Adam hasn’t had time for much but working and spending time with Tommy, but he makes an exception when his phone practically blows up with texts about a bar-hop for Ziggy’s birthday. He hasn’t seen that crowd in a while, and some of those fuckers are _insistent._ Eventually, he sends a mass text back to all of them, telling them he’ll be there and to just shut up already. It works like a dream, and he settles into the group as naturally as ever, chatting away and buying a round for the table to apologize for being so hard to pin down the past few weeks.

He gets a few playful punches on the arm after he finishes telling Ziggy and Cassidy about his ideas for his new music video, and Ziggy raises his glass in a toast.

“To Adam,” he says with mock gravitas, “who will aways be rich and famous.”

“Hey,” Sutan butts in. “Cass and I have done music videos.”

“Not like this rockstar,” Ziggy laughs. “With his big-name directors and dancers and producers.”

Adam laughs. “Whatever, man.”

“I’m just glad you’re slumming it with us tonight. It’s been too long, rockstar. You had to go and get famous. Leave us all behind to enjoy the high life.”

“And don’t even try to complain about the paparazzi. You know I’d kill for that kind of publicity,” Cassidy adds.

“I know, I know. I just wish I could keep some things private, you know? It’s hard on relationships to be that public all the time.”

Sutan reaches over Adam for a napkin, to mop up a drink that has spilled all over the table. “Where is your boy, Adam?” he asks. “Been missing him. I thought he’d come with you tonight.”

It’s been weeks since Adam and Tommy’s very public date night, and word of their relationship has spread quickly. People are always asking him about Tommy these days. Adam smiles to himself. They’re good at going out now -- they have a system -- but it’s not something he really wants to try and pull off in front of this crowd. Tommy had elected to stay at home, happy enough to have some time to recharge.

“He’s just a little tired tonight,” Adam says, throwing a twist of innuendo on it and smirking at the catcalls that come back at him.

“Well, congrats, anyway. I’m glad you two finally worked your shit out,” Sutan says, and raises a glass to clink with Adam’s.

“It’s been really good,” Adam tells the group. He can’t help it. He’s happy, and he wants to share it. He thinks he may have already told them this earlier, but it bears repeating. “I think we’re really good together. I think he’s happy. He seems happier now.”

“Awww,” Ziggy coos from across the table. “You’re adorable. Getting all domestic and shit. I want to meet this boy.”

“He’s pretty,” Cassidy says, nudging Ziggy in the ribs. “Adam always gets the prettiest ones.”

Adam laughs. “What, are you jealous, Cass?”

“He’s not my type!” Cassidy protests. “I’m just sayin’, loads of guys think he’s pretty.”

“Of course they do, he’s gorgeous,” Sutan adds. Adam nods along enthusiastically. He’s not blind. Tommy is really fucking pretty.

“His eyes and his... his hair, and everything,” Adam says. “And his lips.”

Sutan laughs and someone throws a wadded-up napkin at Adam’s head. “Shut up.”

Adam tosses his head and looks down his nose at the table. “Jealous, all of you. I don’t blame you. But Tommy Joe is mine now, so back off, bitches!”

There’s a roar of laughter and protest from the group, but as it dies down a question catches Adam’s attention, asked in an unfamiliar voice. “Wait, you know Tommy?”

Adam forces his eyes to focus -- how many drinks has he had again? -- and finds the source of the voice. It belongs to a tall man standing next to their table, carrying another round of cocktails on a tray. Adam recognizes him -- he’s usually behind the bar.

“Yeah. He’s my boyfriend,” Adam says, unable to keep a hint of pride from bleeding into his voice. It’s still so new, so exciting to be able to say it. He wants to say it a lot more.

“Man, I’m glad to hear he’s okay! Haven’t seen him in here in a while, thought something might have happened,” the guy says, looking genuinely relieved. “He was coming in like every night, and then he just dropped off the face of the planet.”

Adam’s eyes narrow. “What? He was...coming _here?_ ”

“Yeah, man, all the time.”

“Why? What was he doing?”

The bartender glances away, looking nervous, like he’s just realized that maybe he’s saying too much. “Oh, you know, he’d just sit at the bar, have some drinks, check out the crowd. What else do you do here?” he says cautiously.

Adam presses his lips together. He shouldn’t ask. He should leave it alone. It doesn’t matter.

“Tommy’s always loved going to gay bars,” Sutan says quietly, leaning close. “I can see you getting worked up. Just chill.”

Adam holds up one hand, silencing Sutan’s attempts at distracting him. It’s bitchy and rude, but Sutan will forgive him. He always does. Adam faces the bartender again, leaning over the table and pinning him with a glare.

“Did he ever leave with anyone?”

The guy’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back from the table. A big one. “Hey, I think my manager’s calling me, I gotta go. Just glad to hear he’s doing good. Whatever. Enjoy the drinks.”

He disappears back towards the bar, and Adam stares after him for a long moment, until he hears Cassidy’s voice. “Of course he left with someone, Adam. Why else would a single guy go to a gay bar? Especially if he’s _that_ hot?”

“He wasn’t single,” Adam says through gritted teeth.

Cassidy raises his eyebrows, and his mouth curves into a mean little smile. “Wait, you guys were...”

Adam groans. “Not me. His fucking _girlfriend._ ”

Cassidy throws his hands up in the air. “All the more reason to come here! No wonder the dude was desperate.”

Sutan snorts. “You’re such a pig.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Ziggy breaks in, holding out a hand to quiet them all. “Is this the shy little blond twink with the goth makeup? No wonder that guy recognized him. The kid practically hugged the bar. Never danced or anything.”

Adam slaps his hands down on the table and turns to face Ziggy. “Seriously, you saw him too? Fuck.”

Ziggy shrugs. “Sorry, dude, he was easy pickings. Brian was all over him two minutes after he walked in the door.”

Everything goes red, and suddenly Adam’s struggling to get out of the booth, right over Sutan. “Fucking _Brian_ , I’m gonna kill him,” he mutters.

Sutan raises his eyebrows and shoves Adam back down into his seat. “Whoa, diva, calm down. Here. Drink,” he orders, pushing something green and sweet-smelling into Adam’s hand.

Adam doesn’t really want it -- he _wants_ to find Brian and stare him down. He knows he can. He’s _taller_. But Sutan is crossing his arms and staring at him with a stubborn look Adam recognizes. He sighs and drinks.

“Chill out, Adam,” Ziggy says. “What, did you think you were the only guy to ever fuck him?”

 _Yes_ , Adam thinks viciously, already imagining Tommy with Brian, with that fucking bartender, with any number of regulars here. It’s really hard for him to believe Tommy could betray him like that; Tommy always seems so focused on _him_. How could he find someone else? Multiple someones. And so soon? _But then again_ , a hissing voice in the back of his mind pipes up, _he_ ’ _s so fucking easy_. _Wants it so bad. He always has been that way._ Adam’s mouth twists into a grimace and he downs the rest of his drink quickly.

Cassidy laughs, short and clipped, and slumps a bit to look at Adam through his lashes as he asks, “If he wasn’t fucking you at the time, Adam, why do you even care?”

Adam’s saying too much now, and he knows it, but his mouth is two steps ahead of his brain at this point, and once he catches up it’s too late to stop. “He just...he always fucking does this. I don’t know if he’s ever been faithful in a relationship before.”

“And you thought, what, that you were _different?_ Figures. You’ve always thought the sun rises and sets around your cock.”

“Maybe he’s just never been faithful because it’s never been _right_ ,” Sutan says, laying a hand on Adam’s arm.

“And it’s right this time? Does he know that?” Adam snaps. He shoves Sutan and climbs out of the booth, and once he’s free... he’s at a loss. He looks around and all he can see are all these men kissing his boy, _fucking_ him, taking him apart. “He’s mine,” he mutters to no one.

Sutan appears at his back, holding onto Adam’s arm and hooking his chin over Adam’s shoulder. “C’mere, honey, I think we should talk.”

Adam lets Sutan lead him outside to a crowded patio. It’s cooler than inside the bar, and cigarette smoke hangs thick and acrid in the air. Sutan deposits Adam against a railing and disappears for all of thirty seconds. He comes back with a lit cigarette between smirking lips and a phone number written on his arm, and Adam has to smile. Just one of Sutan’s many talents -- he never has to buy his own smokes.

“So. Tell me about Tommy. How’s he like being a rock star’s boyfriend?” Sutan asks lightly, leaning down to rest his elbows on the rail, shoulder to shoulder with Adam.

Adam runs his fingers back through his hair. It’s getting long again. He makes a mental note to make an appointment for a trim. “He’s...good. It’s good, I guess. I mean...different.”

Sutan gives him a sardonic look. “Come on, don’t front. You couldn’t shut up about him ten minutes ago. You were practically _glowing._ ”

“Honestly? I don’t know what to think right now. Sometimes it’s so perfect, it really is. He’s...well, you know. He’s just so--”

“Tommy,” Sutan says with a little laugh.

“Yes!” Adam smiles, thinking about kissing Tommy in front of the fire. Sharing pasta out of a single bowl. Goth realness. “But then sometimes, things get fucked up so fast, and I don’t even know why. And Tommy, he’s just never been--”

“A relationship guy,” Sutan finishes the sentence with Adam, nodding. He’s quiet for a moment, taking a long drag and letting the smoke trickle out through pursed lips. “I think maybe we underestimate him sometimes. He loves you, Adam. I think he has for a long time. Maybe he didn’t know it, but it’s always been there.”

“Funny fucking way of showing it, sleeping around with random bar hookups right after the first time we...god, this is so screwed up.” Adam lets his head fall into his hands. He feels tired all of a sudden.

Sutan puts an arm around Adam’s shoulders and hugs him tight. “We all did stupid things when we were first figuring out boys. I know you did. Tommy just had to figure it out a little later than we did, and a little faster. And hey, you _know_ none of those other boys could match up to you. Not for him.”

“What if he’s not ready for a relationship? Like... commitment. I mean, this is basically his first time...”

“Baby, he’s adjusting to so many things right now. I don’t think finding another boyfriend is high on his to-do list. Let him get used to you before you start stressing about him finding someone better.”

Adam sighs and looks up, stretching his neck. The sky is a dull orange, and though there must be stars, none of them are bright enough to break through. “I just wish he would have told me, you know? He should have said something, not just let me think I was his only.”

Sutan nods. “Go home. Talk to him. Work it out. I’m sure he had his reasons, Adam. Besides, it’s always better to have these things out in the open. Right? Right.”

Adam laughs and tilts his head to rest it on Sutan’s shoulder. They stand in silence while Sutan finishes his smoke, and it’s comfortable and easy. It reminds Adam of being on tour, the way they all slotted so neatly into life on the road, leaning on each other to get through. He’s starting to crave that closeness again, that second family.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Sutan leans down and plans a kiss on the top of Adam’s head. “I knew you only kept me around to deal with your moods. I’m demanding a raise next time.”

“You deserve it.”

“You calm now?” Sutan asks. “Ready to go back in?”

Adam nods and Sutan pulls Adam away from the railing and back into the bar. Cassidy and Ziggy are laughing loudly in the booth, and it’s infectious. It pulls a smile to Adam’s lips, and then a chuckle when he draws near. And then he gets close enough to hear what Cassidy is saying. He knows they’re talking about Tommy again. He _knows_ it.

“Every time I’ve ever seen him, he’s been drunk off his ass. Talk about _easy_.”

“I never did see him turn down a drink. And there were so many people buying that boy drinks.”

“He’s pretty! I mean, he’s not even my type, but I’d fuck him.”

Ziggy leans close to Cassidy, but he doesn’t lower his voice at all. “From what I hear, he’s a pretty decent lay. If you ever get the chance...”

Cassidy scoffs. “As if Adam will ever let him out of his sight.”

“He better not! Tommy was hanging off of any guy who stood near him. He’s obviously looking for someone to cling to.”

“ _Anyone_ to cling to,” Cassidy adds. “He’d go so fucking easy, let me tell you.”

“You don’t _have_ to tell me,” Ziggy says, laughing. “I saw it happen. More than once...”

Adam can practically feel the blood draining from his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but someone behind him speaks up.

“They’re right, you know. That kid. He _did_ go so fucking easy.”

Adam whirls around, ready to punch this guy in the face, but it’s Brian. _Brian_. “What did you say?” Adam asks incredulously.

“I said the kid was easy,” Brian replies smoothly, clutching a drink in one hand. He takes a sip and wiggles the glass, shaking up the ice. “Practically threw himself at me.”

“You didn’t have to fucking--”

“He wanted to fuck. Well, he wanted a dick up his ass. _Begged_ for it. Didn’t seem to matter much that it was mine, which... Well, obviously he didn’t know my reputation. Bet he remembers me now.”

“You’re lying,” Adam snaps. “He wouldn’t. Not with you.”

“I got there first. Like always.” Brian shrugs and gives him a _look_ , that fucking infuriating mix of arrogance and apathy that’s always been able to get under Adam’s skin. “Go home to your little slut, Adam. Fuck him hard for me and quit your complaining. Have a good night!” Brian turns on his heel and heads for the dance floor, and Adam lunges after him, but something catches his arm, holds him back. Sutan’s fingers dig into his bicep and he gives Adam a firm look.

“You know he’s not worth it,” Sutan hisses. “Let it go.”

“They shouldn’t talk about him that way.”

“I know, hon. But it’s just talk. Don’t let it get to you.”

Adam takes a few deep breaths. He thinks he should be angry, or offended, or _something._ Instead, he just feels tired.

He looks at the floor and mutters to Sutan under his breath. “I’m going home. Sorry. I know it’s been forever since we got to catch up, but...”

Sutan shakes his head. “I don’t blame you, honey. I think I’ve had enough of these assholes for one night, too.”

Adam gives him a quick hug and heads for the door, just wanting to escape into the open night air again.

He doesn’t really want to go home yet -- Tommy’s at home, and he knows he won’t be able to see Tommy without saying _something._ The thought of talking about this makes Adam’s stomach roll. He already knows how it will go. He’ll ask Tommy about it in the nicest way he can think of -- _hey, so how about all those guys you fucked? Wanna tell me about that? Were you gonna?_ And then Tommy’s eyes will shut down and his face will go blank and he’ll avoid the situation for as long as it takes to make it go away. If it ever does.

He’s not ready for all that just yet. He pauses just under the exit sign and rubs at his forehead with one hand. It had been going so well -- _so fucking well._ He should have known. There’s always something.

He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns around, expecting to see Sutan, but it’s Ziggy, giving him an apologetic look. “Sorry, man,” he says, holding his arms out in a shrug.

“It’s all true, though, isn’t it?” Adam asks. Ziggy shrugs again. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my fault for thinking he could stay faithful for two fucking minutes.”

“If you knew he couldn’t commit, why the hell did you get into a relationship with him?”

Adam looks around the bar, trying to avoid answering aloud. He feels like such an idiot. But Ziggy’s watching him intently, and Adam finally sighs and says, “I thought he would be different with me.”

It sounds hollow and childish even to his own ears. Arrogant. Embarrassingly so.

Ziggy puts a hand on Adam’s shoulder and asks, “Wanna get out of here?”

Despite everything, Adam gives him a half-smile and says, “You trying to pick me up?”

Ziggy laughs, loud and easy, and shakes his head. “For real, man, come out with me. You know I’ll treat you nice. How long’s it been since you gave yourself a break from all the bullshit?”

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. Tommy’s waiting for him at home, and work...fuck, he’s got a video shoot in a couple days. He glances up at Ziggy, considering.

“Come on. Just once...for old time’s sake. Yeah?”

Finally, Adam throws up his hands and gives Ziggy a reluctant grin. “All right, yeah. Just once.”

Ziggy wraps his arm around Adam’s shoulders and pulls him close in a half-hug. He smells of incense and unwashed clothing, and it takes Adam right back, back almost ten years, back to being young and unknown and fucking _free._

“Fuck yeah, awesome. You won’t regret it,” Ziggy says, pulling Adam out of the bar and toward one of the cabs waiting outside.

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t regret it when Ziggy takes him to a crowded, unfamiliar house with fingerpaint on the walls and cigarette butts piled in the corners. He doesn’t regret it when he leans down toward the pristine white lines of powder, holding his hand to his nose at the cold tingle he hasn’t felt in years. And he doesn’t regret it when he turns down Ziggy’s offer to crash at the house, calls himself a cab instead and tells the driver to take him home.

He needs to talk to Tommy. Right the fuck now.

Adam can hardly still his hands enough to fit the key in the door, the sound of jingling metal loud in his ears. He stalks into the house with his eyes narrowed, glancing restlessly from side to side. Tommy’s here somewhere. He fucking better be.

He can’t hear the TV, but it’s on when he enters the living room, just turned on very low volume. Tommy’s on the couch, not even paying attention to whatever’s playing, because he’s on his phone. Texting or tweeting or _whatever_. Adam wants to grab it out of Tommy’s hand, see who he’s talking to. What he’s saying.

“Adam!” Tommy says loudly--too loud for the quiet room. He reaches for Adam, and Adam moves towards him almost involuntarily. Tommy gets a handful of Adam’s shirt and clings tight, too uncoordinated for a proper hug, but Adam doesn’t want a hug anyway. He pushes Tommy’s hand off with difficulty and raises his eyebrows, giving Tommy’s phone a pointed look.

Tommy follows his gaze, staring down at his phone warily, like it might bite. “...What?” he asks, cautious.

“Really? Really, Tommy, that’s all you have to say? _What?_ ”

Tommy’s eyes widen. “Um. No?”

Adam huffs and turns his back, pacing to the other side of the room. “I should have known better. Never could make a good decision around you. You make me so fucking _stupid_ , Tommy.”

“What?” Tommy asks. “Stupid? Why are you... You aren’t stupid.”

“Then don’t treat me like an idiot, Tommy. Don’t play me. Don’t pretend you’re so perfect and--”

“I’m _not_ ,” Tommy protests.

“You’re not better than me,” Adam shouts at him. Tommy shrinks back against the couch and Adam’s blood sings at the sight of him cowering. He stalks up to the couch and picks up Tommy’s phone, and Tommy makes no move to stop him. Adam throws it across the room. “Fucking slut,” he mutters. “Were you even a virgin the first time we fucked? Huh?”

Tommy opens his mouth to reply, but Adam doesn’t wait to hear it. He turns on his heel and heads for the stairs.

“Adam! Wait! Adam!” Tommy calls after him. “I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did, I’m _sorry_!”

Adam looks back over his shoulder and sees Tommy on his feet now, both hands extended a little in front of him, like he’s trying to reach for Adam. Adam’s too far away. His lips curl into a sneer and he watches Tommy’s hands fall to his sides.

“Your friends at the bar say hi,” Adam says, then goes up to his bedroom without another glance. He slams the door and stares at the doorknob for a breath or two. Then he reaches out and flips the lock. It’s stupid and pointless, he knows -- even as he does it he knows -- and he rolls his eyes at himself and unlocks it again. Not like Tommy’s even gonna try it. Fucking spineless. He turns around. Looks back over his shoulder. Clicks the lock over again before he can talk himself out of it. He just fucking, fucking...needs to be alone right now.

He paces around the room for a moment, fuming with anger, but it’s useless. He’s just working himself into exhaustion. It doesn’t take long to hit; he throws himself onto the bed and falls asleep with the lights still on.

A knock never comes.

*

Adam wakes up dying for water. His head is pounding, and his skin feels too tight, like it’s dried-out and shrunk while he’s still wearing it. He blinks his eyes open, groans, stretches -- and freezes as last night comes flooding back in. He pushes himself out of bed and shuffles to the door like a zombie, and his stomach twists uncomfortably when he tries to turn the handle and finds it locked. He pops the lock and looks out into the hall.

“Tommy?” he calls softly. There’s no reply. Adam hurries over to the window and looks out, but both cars are still parked in the driveway. Tommy’s still here, he must be. Adam calls his name again and then continues down the stairs, retracing his steps from last night.

Tommy’s on the couch--mostly--dead asleep. One arm is hanging off the edge and he looks like he’s about to roll onto the floor, and he doesn’t even twitch when Adam says his name. Adam sinks to his knees beside the couch and pets Tommy’s hair away from his face.

“Tommy? Baby? Wake up.”

Adam strokes his hand down Tommy’s cheek, traces Tommy’s lips with his thumb, and at that, Tommy startles. His eyes fly open.

Adam watches as Tommy tries to focus. It takes him a little while, blinking and rubbing his eyes, and Adam can actually _see_ when the memory of last night starts to come back to him, his mouth falling open and his brow knitting.

“Tommy...”

“Adam, I’m sorry, so fucking sorry, I...I don’t even...”

“It’s okay, baby. You didn’t...I mean, I didn’t mean...fuck, just come here,” Adam says, and Tommy reaches up and wraps his arms too tight around Adam’s neck, holding onto him with everything he has. Adam’s kissing him before he even realizes he wants to, deep and hurried, and Tommy falls back onto the couch and pulls Adam _up_ until he’s covering Tommy with his body, pressing into him all the way down.

Adam darts his tongue out, letting himself sink into the kiss, and tastes whiskey heavy in Tommy’s mouth. From this angle, he can see the bottle tucked down between the couch and the side table, crooked and mostly empty, and it sparks something in his memory, the pieces of a puzzle maybe starting to come together. Tommy on tour, with his ever-present red plastic cup. Tommy drunk-texting him at five in the morning. What Ziggy and Cass had said last night... _he never turns down a drink._

He pulls away and brushes his fingers gently through Tommy’s hair. Tommy doesn’t open his eyes, just hums happily and turns his face toward the touch. Adam clenches his teeth. Takes a breath.

“Baby, last night...”

At that, Tommy does look up at him, his lips turned down in a pout. “But now it’s today. Can’t we just--”

“Pretend it never happened? Move on like everything’s fine?” Adam pulls himself off Tommy and sits up on the couch. Tommy doesn’t move to follow, looking unsure as he bites his lip, and Adam takes a second to hate himself for putting that doubt on Tommy’s face before reaching a hand out to him, pulling him into a cuddle. They sit just like that for a few minutes, quiet. Close.

“It really was my first time,” Tommy whispers into Adam’s shoulder, eventually.

The words hit Adam like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He whispers back when he speaks. “I know, baby. I know.”

“Then why...”

“I didn’t know what I was saying. I shouldn’t have...last night was just fucked up. Really fucked up.”

Tommy pauses for a moment, and his arm sneaks around Adam’s waist, holding him tight. “You said something about my...friends...friends at the bar.”

Adam turns his face away from Tommy and stares out the window, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He doesn’t want to hear. Knows he has to. He swallows hard and hopes this isn’t their last morning together -- waking up separately, bodies aching, brains still chemical-hazy from the night before. Fucking shitty ending, if it is one.

“After we...after the first time, I didn’t know...I mean, the way we left it. I’d never done that before, and it just felt...I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I went out...”

“Why didn’t you come back here? You should have told me, Tommy.”

Tommy presses his face harder into Adam’s side, and his next words are so quiet Adam has to strain to hear them. “I didn’t think you wanted me.”

“Oh, baby...” Adam can’t help it. He pulls Tommy up and over until he’s straddling Adam’s lap, their arms wrapped around each other, kissing again. “Always wanted you, for so long. Still do.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how to explain.”

“Just tell me one thing, Tommy, and then we really can pretend it never happened. These...friends. Since we...since you moved in with me...you haven’t...?”

Tommy sits back and stares at Adam with wide eyes. He shakes his head, sending his hair flying, and Adam has to grab his hips to keep him from falling off his lap.

“ _No_ , never. I couldn’t, Adam. They weren’t you. And...I didn’t get it at the time, but it wasn’t the...the sex I wanted. It was _you._ ”

Adam’s breath catches in his throat. “ _Tommy_ ,” he says, his voice rasping over the name, but he doesn’t know what else to say. There aren’t words. Instead, he tangles his fingers in Tommy’s messy hair and pulls his face in, not kissing, just holding him close, faces touching, lips breathing the same air.

“I’ll never do it again, Adam, I swear. No one but you,” Tommy whispers, and Adam can feel each puff of warm air against his skin. He can smell the alcohol on Tommy’s breath, but the words are clear, and he knows Tommy means them.

“That’s right, baby, you’re all mine,” he whispers, and if it comes out rougher than he means, Tommy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yours,” Tommy agrees, and tilts his face, his lips parted, practically begging for a kiss.

Adam doesn’t make him wait.

Later, after they’ve chugged their way through what feels like a dozen bottles of water and had a makeshift breakfast of leftover Chinese, Adam has a brilliant idea. He watches Tommy poke at the remnants of his rice with a fork and says, “So you know I have that video shoot on Monday, right?”

Tommy glances up. “Yeah. Still no band for this one, right?”

“Right, it’s like, all dancers. But you should come to the shoot with me anyway! It’ll be fun - you can watch me make an ass of myself in front of the camera. That’s always a good time.”

“Oh...I dunno, Adam. I don’t want to get in the way,” Tommy says, avoiding Adam’s eyes.

“You won’t be in the way.” Tommy doesn’t say anything, and Adam sighs. “I just hate the thought of leaving you here by yourself all the time. It must get lonely.”

Tommy stands and starts to pick up the plates, taking them to the sink. “I don’t mind being on my own, you know. I handle it a lot better than being with people, sometimes.”

 _Yeah, you can handle my liquor cabinet real well that way, too_ , Adam thinks, before he can stop himself. He feels guilty as soon as he thinks it. Hypocritical. Like he’s got any room to talk after last night. He finds himself touching his nose without realizing he’s doing it, checking. He’s halfway been expecting a nosebleed ever since he woke up.

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to come, but I’d really love it if you were there. It’s a new director, new dancers, new everything. It would be really nice to see a familiar face,” he says. It’s not quite a lie. Not really.

Tommy finishes scraping his leftovers into the trash and comes back to stand next to Adam. “You really want me to come?” he asks.

“I really do.”

Tommy shrugs. “Then I’ll come.”

Adam gives him a bright smile. “Thank you, baby. It’ll be fun, you’ll see,” he says. “Come on, wanna keep me company in the shower?”

At that, Tommy smiles back, the first real smile Adam’s seen from him all morning, and things finally feel a little bit normal again. “Always,” Tommy says, and lets Adam lead him upstairs, leaving a trail of discarded clothing and the remnants of last night’s ugly tension behind them.

*

It’s been a while since Tommy’s been on the set of a music video. His first thought is that everything moves faster than he remembers from the videos he did with Adam before. But maybe it’s just that Tommy’s not a _part_ of this video; everyone is racing around him, getting things ready, rehearsing dance moves, bringing important people coffee. And Adam’s swept away in it, hurried off to a makeup room as soon as he finds Tommy a seat right in the middle of the action. “So I can see you,” he’d said with a smile, but Tommy can’t see Adam now. There are too many people around, and Tommy’s at loose ends. He feels useless, just sitting here in his chair while everyone is so busy.

Adam finally comes back, but only for a second. He’s all made up in thick eyeliner and black jewelry, and his hair has hints of color in it. Tommy smiles at him.

“You look good,” he says, and Adam beams down at him.

“I wanted your approval,” Adam tells him with a wink. “Can’t stay and chat, though. Are you all right here? Can you see all right?”

Tommy nods, because he doesn’t want Adam to worry about him while he’s working. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. He’ll just stay in his chair and not get in anyone’s way.

Adam ducks in and kisses Tommy quickly on the lips. Tommy tastes cherry lip gloss and leans up, wanting to deepen the kiss, wanting _more_ , but Adam just pulls away and smiles at him before disappearing back into the crowd of people gathering on the set.

Before the cameras roll, Adam and about a million male dancers get into formation and rehearse their synchronized dance steps. Tommy watches Adam: the way his jacket rides up when he lifts his arms, and the curve of his tight leather pants hugging his ass. Then his gaze slides over to the guys standing next to Adam. They’re all smaller than Adam--he’s almost a head taller than everyone else in the video, and that’s only partially due to his heeled boots--and they’re all wearing much less than Adam. One boy practically hanging off Adam’s arm is wearing nothing but a pair of shiny silver shorts.

Tommy pulls his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie and crosses his arms. He doesn’t know how all these guys can wear that little clothing and not freeze. He starts to hunch down in his chair, curling in on himself...but that makes his belly press into his arms and his chin go all doubled-up, and he sits up again quickly, feeling eyes on him and trying to ignore them. He takes a deep breath and finds Adam in the crowd, remembering Adam’s voice, Adam’s hands warm and steadying on his throat. Just one day to get through, and then they can go home and have dinner and maybe watch a movie, and forget the rest of the world even exists.

It almost works. It _would_ work, except that just as Tommy’s starting to feel a little bit better, one of the dancers stumbles and falls right into Adam, who catches him easily and sets him back on his feet with a laugh. The dancer blushes and apologizes, looking up at Adam through his eyelashes, and Adam says something Tommy can’t hear, something that makes everyone around him laugh. Tommy hugs his arms tighter around his body and tries to reason with himself. Adam’s just being nice. Polite. Charming, like he always is. It’s not flirting at all.

Not that Tommy would blame him. These dancers are everything Tommy wishes he could be: thin and toned, comfortable in their bodies, comfortable wearing just their own skin. He watches the dancer next to Adam closely during the next take, trying to see him as Adam must. He’s just so... _not Tommy._ He’s tan, for one thing, a rich, even brown all over his skin instead of Tommy’s sickly pale tone. Tommy squints down at his hands. He’s so white he can see the veins running under his skin. They almost don’t _make_ makeup light enough for him. He could tan, he guesses. If Adam wanted. As long as he didn’t have to undress in front of anyone.

He looks back to the dancer. The guy is muscular, too. He’s not like, bodybuilder muscular, but Tommy can definitely count his six-pack, and there’s something about the way his arms and legs flex as he dances...yeah, Tommy can see why Adam would want that. Tommy flashes back for a second to a time before he knew Adam, back when he was getting picked on all the time for how small he was and he decided lifting weights was the answer. And it’s not like he didn’t get stronger, but his body never looked like _that_ , not even close. His muscles just don’t seem to work that way. He bites his lip. Maybe he could start working out with Adam in the mornings. Maybe.

But the tan and the muscles aren’t the worst thing, not by a long way. Tommy watches as the director calls cut and everyone smiles and stretches and goes to reset the opening pose. The dancer he’s been watching grins brightly at Adam and says something, and Adam laughs and raises his eyebrows as he replies. The dancer puts one hand on his hip, tosses his head, and struts back to his place, all attitude, and it’s not just Adam laughing now, but all of them, laughing and smiling and catcalling, and Tommy wants to disappear right into the floor. He could tan, sure, and he could work out until his stomach had muscles instead of ugly fat. But he’ll never have that attitude, that _confidence._ He’ll never be like Brad, or Jake, quick and funny and confident. He’ll always be this fucking awkward failure of a person, no matter how hard he wishes he could be what Adam wants. What he likes. What he _deserves._

Tommy runs a hand through his hair, pulling it down over his forehead, then lifts his hood up over his head. It’s cold in here, away from the bright lights. It’s different. He’s used to being out there next to Adam, pampered and put on display, focusing only on the music and _Adam_. It’s so much easier than _this_ , than watching from the sidelines and not participating at all.

One of the PAs steps in front of Tommy’s face, blocking his view of the set. He takes a second to refocus his gaze on her, shaking off the images of Adam dancing behind his eyelids.

“Are you Tommy?” she asks. “The boyfriend?”

Tommy shrugs and nods his head a little.

“Do you want anything? Water, coffee... a sandwich?”

“Oh, I’m not--I’m not in the video,” Tommy protests. “You don’t have to get me--”

The girl laughs. “You’re Adam’s boyfriend; you can have whatever you want.”

 _I want Adam_ , Tommy thinks, but that’s not fair. Adam’s working, and he let Tommy come and watch as a favor, a treat. “Coffee?” he asks, and the PA nods decisively and runs off. She returns less than a minute later with a tall paper cup, fragrant steam rolling off the top, and Tommy gives her a weak smile of thanks. She disappears again, and Tommy stares down at the coffee for a long moment, wishing he had a flask or something to doctor it with. He needs to relax, and without a splash of whiskey, the coffee will only wind him up more. He sighs and just holds the hot cup with both hands, letting it warm him from the outside rather than from within.

Eventually the day settles into a rhythm, take after take, Adam’s song pounding through the space over and over. It’s a good song, but after a couple hours Tommy is wishing he’d brought his iPod. He could still be here with headphones on. Not like he’s contributing much anyway.

He’s starting to doze off in his chair when they finally finish the first dance sequence and the director tells the dancers to go take a break. He blinks and sits up, thinking maybe Adam will get a break too -- but no, the makeup people are rushing in to dab the sweat off his face and retouch his lips, and once they disappear shooting resumes, this time close-ups of Adam’s face lipsynching the lyrics. Instead, Tommy’s previously quiet corner is suddenly full of sweaty, muscular bodies, chattering and stretching and working out particularly difficult sequences to themselves. He brings one hand to his mouth, biting at his nails, and keeps watching Adam.

“ _God_ , he’s gorgeous.”

The voice comes from just next to Tommy, and he startles and glances up, pushing his hood back out of the way to see who’s talking. It’s the same dancer who’d fallen into Adam’s arms. Of course it is.

Tommy nods and mutters something incomprehensible even to himself. He can’t think of anyone he wants to talk to less right now.

“Wait...I know you. You’re Tommy, right? Guitarist-turned-boyfriend Tommy?” At Tommy’s nod, the guy keeps talking. “That’s so great, you know? Like, you were straight, right? Before Adam? I just think it’s so great that you can be with him now. I mean, talk about the perfect first boyfriend.”

Tommy isn’t sure how to respond to that. He nods noncommittally.

“I bet it’s like a dream. Is it? I mean, he’s got to be fucking amazing in the sack, right? He’s like every boy’s wet dream, you know? You’re so lucky. You’re like... living a fantasy.”

The road leading to Tommy’s relationship with Adam was definitely not easy or even particularly pleasurable, and if he’s honest, he’s not sure he’d want to go through all that shit again. Tommy bites the inside of his lip quickly. Adam’s worth it, of course he is. Adam’s worth all that trouble, and Tommy’s better now that he’s with Adam.

The dancer nudges Tommy’s arm with his elbow and gives him a sly look. “Is it as big as everyone thinks?”

For a long moment, Tommy’s completely lost. When he catches on, he blushes fiercely and reaches up to run his fingers through his hair. He can’t meet this guy’s gaze now, not when he’s talking about Adam’s cock, and what Tommy knows about Adam’s cock. Jesus Christ.

The man laughs and reaches for Tommy’s hands. “It totally is, isn’t it? Come on, I want you to meet some people. I’m Eric, by the way.” Eric pulls Tommy to his feet and doesn’t let go as he leads Tommy over to the group of dancers hanging out by a cooler of water bottles.

“Tommy, these are the boys... A lot of us have worked together before. Guys, this is Adam’s _boyfriend_.” The way Eric says “boyfriend” makes Tommy blush again, and he knows they’re all thinking about Adam fucking him, now. He can practically see it on their faces, the open curiosity and the jealousy and the desire. He wants to escape, but Adam’s busy, Adam can’t come to his rescue and Eric isn’t letting go of Tommy’s hand.

They all start talking at once, exclaiming over Tommy and asking him questions about Adam, and Tommy’s suddenly flashing back to the first time they’d gone out together, paps and flashbulbs and questions filling the air. He bites his lip and looks at the floor. Fucking fame. Why does everyone have to be so _interested?_

Eric waves them away and pulls Tommy closer to him, like he’s _his_. Tommy should be pulling away, he should, but the motion is sharp and insistent, and his immediate instinct is to follow. Eric’s laughing now and talking to the rest of the pack, telling them that he knew Adam had good taste, look at him, _so_ Adam’s type. There’s a ripple of agreement, and Tommy blushes. It’s weird being shown off. He doesn’t like it.

He starts rubbing his forehead with both hands, hiding his face, and mumbles something about having a headache. Eric ducks down to look him in the face and puts both his hands up to touch Tommy’s face. “Oh, from the backing track? That happens to me at every single shoot! Here, if you just rub like this, it helps a lot...let me...”

And then Eric is rubbing his fingers into Tommy’s temples, slow circles that probably would help his headache, a lot, actually...but this just feels _wrong_. He’s not a dancer, doesn’t have that easy familiarity they all seem to have with each other, the casual touches and hugs and kisses on the cheek. He wonders if he’s supposed to. There’s an urge to shove Eric, break away from the contact and go back to his chair, but...that would be rude, and maybe cause a scene, and if Adam got behind schedule because of him...No. He just slides his hands over his face and covers his eyes and pretends none of this is happening.

He doesn’t uncover his eyes again until he feels a sudden, sharp _tug_ at his elbow, pulling him up and away before he knows what’s happening. He blinks in the too-bright light, and when his vision clears, he realizes he’s looking up at Adam. Adam’s still in full makeup, eyeliner heavier than he ever wears it, lips shiny and wet-looking, freckles hidden under a thick, painted-on layer of perfect skin tone. He looks beautiful. And he looks _furious._

Adam pulls him toward the bathroom, dragging him along by one arm and apparently not caring a bit about all the people staring at them, crew members and dancers and even the director, who just sighs and rolls his eyes. Tommy feels his cheeks heat, and he keeps his eyes trained on the heels of Adam’s boots as they click along in front of him. After what seems like ages, they finally make it into the tiny room, and Adam turns the bolt on the door before rounding on Tommy. He looks like he’s gearing up for a fight, but Tommy’s so relieved to be _alone_ with him that he can’t help but sigh and relax, just a little.

“Adam...” he starts, but Adam cuts him off before he can get any further.

“You think I couldn’t see you, Tommy? Is that what you want -- pretty little cut boys like that? Am I not _enough_ for you?”

“You are,” Tommy replies quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... to look. I wasn’t--”

“You just can’t help yourself,” Adam sneers. “God, Tommy, would it kill you to ignore everyone trying to get in your pants, just for a little while?”

Tommy can’t think of _anyone_ trying to get in his pants, especially not any of the guys out there, the pretty, tiny, fit ones. He opens his mouth to protest, but Adam doesn’t let him speak. Adam pushes Tommy back against the door, slides his hand up to fit around the base of Tommy’s throat, and leans close to hiss in his face. Tommy can feel the anger burning off him like a physical force, and he presses into Adam’s hold, pushing closer. It’s the first thing today that has actually warmed him up.

“You make me fucking crazy,” Adam says in a low voice.

Tommy tilts his head back, pushing his neck harder into Adam’s grip. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, and Adam’s fingers tighten. Tommy lets the noises from outside the bathroom fade away, and suddenly all he can hear is Adam’s deep, harsh breaths, and all he can feel are Adam’s hands pressing into his skin. “I didn’t mean to.”

Adam’s eyes don’t waver, burning cold right into him, and Tommy can’t look away even though it hurts, hurts more than Adam’s hands cutting off his air. Adam’s lips curl into a snarl. “You’re sorry?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

“Yes! I would never...” Tommy can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have enough air.

Adam hangs on for a few more seconds. Then his hands loosen and his face comes even closer, and he whispers roughly right against Tommy’s lips. “If you were really sorry, you’d show me. Show me how sorry you are.”

Adam’s voice is so harsh, so sharp, that Tommy wonders if this is a game, if it’s just an excuse to fuck this way. He can’t tell the difference between Adam playing and Adam serious anymore, and staring into Adam’s eyes isn’t giving him any clues. Adam just looks _angry_ , and it lights up something inside Tommy, something that makes him react.

Tommy nods before Adam’s even finished speaking, and when Adam releases his throat, Tommy sinks down to his knees. He hits the floor hard, feels the jolt of it all the way up through his body, but the pain is distant. The heat of Adam, of his rage and his arousal, and that warmth is addictive, especially after Tommy’s been cold for so long. He reaches for Adam, lays his hands on Adam’s thighs, not confident enough in what he thinks Adam wants from him to take that final step and initiate it himself.

“Let me make it up to you,” he says. “Let me show you.”

Adam doesn’t waste time. He yanks apart the sides of his tight leather pants and exposes his cock, bare and hard and wet, but before Tommy can make a move towards it, Adam fists a hand in Tommy’s hair and forces his head back.

“Tell me you want it,” Adam says roughly. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” Tommy replies obediently, but Adam just tightens his fist and shakes Tommy a little by his hair.

“ _More than them_ , Tommy,” Adam hisses. “Tell me you want me more than them.”

“I want you,” Tommy cries. His hands drop to his lap and he tries to show Adam his sincerity through his expression. “I want you so fucking bad, Adam, I want you more than anyone. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_. Let me show you, please, let me.” Adam’s cock is so close Tommy can almost taste it already, and he wants it. He wants it so bad, his mouth is watering. He drops his gaze, just for a moment, and stares at the leaking tip. “I need you, Adam, please.”

Adam stares down at him for one heated breath, and his voice has a raw edge of honesty to it when he speaks. “I like it when you beg.”

Tommy knows. He’s staring at Adam’s cock, can _see_ how hard he is, hard and leaking. He knows what Adam wants from him. He strains against Adam’s grip on his hair, gasping at the dull shock of pain and breathing out one more desperate “ _Please._ ”

Adam allows him to move just a little bit closer, and he still can’t _quite_ reach, but maybe if he...Tommy lets his tongue slide out between his lips, as far as he can get it, and oh fuck yes, he can _just_ lick the tip over the slit of Adam’s cock, lapping over and over, barely-there contact that makes Adam’s breath go rough and gives Tommy just the smallest taste of bitter-salt- _Adam_. He wants more, wants Adam stretching his lips and the taste of him flooding his tongue, and he can hear himself whining in the back of his throat, back where he wants Adam’s cock, and he would still be begging if he could, if he could stop himself licking for just one second.

Adam’s legs are shaking now, and Tommy wonders if he could make Adam come just like this, from this one tiny touch. He closes his eyes and pulls against Adam’s grip and works his tongue faster, and finally Adam _gasps_ and yanks him back, out of reach again.

Tommy opens his eyes and looks up at Adam...but he doesn’t close his mouth, just lets his tongue lay on his bottom lip, open and ready, _waiting._

“Oh _fuck_ Tommy, you’re so fucking...” Adam says, and takes his cock in one hand and angles it down, feeding it into Tommy’s mouth in one long, slow thrust of his hips. And oh, there it is, the stretch and the heavy fullness on his tongue and the _taste,_ and Tommy’s brain just sort of checks out, leaving him with nothing but what he can feel, a blank slate responding to Adam’s prompting and nothing else. It’s so good, so _easy_ , just to open himself up and take Adam in, and he doesn’t even feel the slightest twinge of panic when Adam keeps _going_ , pushing in past where he ever has before, all the way to the back of Tommy’s throat where the flesh gets soft and tight and vulnerable. For one perfect second, Tommy can’t breathe, Adam’s cock taking up all the space he has, blocking him off from everything. Then, too soon, his body reacts, and his throat flutters and contracts and he gags, sinking and desperate around Adam, the ugly, wet sound of it loud in the enclosed space of the bathroom. Adam pulls back smoothly, dragging a thick, viscous string of Tommy’s spit with him, and Tommy falls forward onto one hand, coughing hard and gasping for air. He starts to wipe at his sloppy-wet chin, but Adam yanks his hair again and arches one eyebrow at him in response to his look.

“Did I say you could clean up?” he asks, and Tommy feels something sink inside him. He’s _trying,_ he just didn’t know...

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, still coughing. “I just wanted--”

“ _You_ wanted? But it’s not about what you want, Tommy, is it? And I want you _messy._ I want you to look like the hot little cocksucker you are.”

Tommy sucks in a quick breath and glances toward the door quickly, thinking about all the people out there waiting for Adam, how they’ll be able to see his swollen red lips, hear the rasp in his voice. They’ll _know_. Maybe they know already. Maybe they can hear. They know exactly what Adam was dragging him off to do. His cheeks are burning, hot shame going all through him, but also...something else. Some part of him that doesn’t care who knows that Adam’s got him on his knees, fucking his face. A part of him that’s _proud._

His eyes slide back to Adam, oh god, Adam who’s _watching_ him so closely, smirking like he knows everything Tommy’s thinking, like he can see it all right there in Tommy’s face. He twists his fingers in Tommy’s hair and pulls him in again, before Tommy’s even had time to take in a breath.

“You love this, don’t you,” Adam mutters, sliding his hand back to the crown of Tommy’s head, holding him still while he thrusts his hips forward. “You’d be on your knees for anyone who dragged you in here. Anyone who found you. Fucking desperate for it. Desperate for a cock down your fucking throat.”

Adam’s got a rhythm going now, fucking in and out in deep strokes, not quite hitting the back of Tommy’s throat but getting close. It’s fast and hard and hurried, and Tommy can’t do anything, can’t lick or suck or help, just tilts his chin up and _takes_ what Adam’s giving him. The sound of it echoes through the room, obscene wet noises punctuated with Adam’s low grunts, Tommy’s muffled whimpering. His head is spinning, like he’s drunk, fucking wasted on Adam’s taste, the smell of him when he presses close, musk and sweat and precome. He reaches out to grab Adam’s legs, his hips, something to steady himself, but Adam shakes him off with one quick jerk, throwing him off-balance again, his hips never missing a beat.

“You want it any way you can fucking get it, right, Tommy? Right? Well, fucking take it, then.” Adam pushes too far, and Tommy’s throat closes; he gags again and jerks in Adam’s hold, trying to pull away and get some air, but Adam doesn’t let him move. He shoves in again, and Tommy can’t breathe, and Adam’s body is blocking all the light from the ugly florescent fixture and Tommy stares up at him as best he can, his eyes filling with tears that stream down his face. He can’t stop them. He feels wet everywhere, dirty from sitting on the floor, and his head aches, sore from Adam yanking his hair. He blinks hard and tries to keep his eyes open, tries to keep watching Adam’s face.

“I’m the only one who gets to do this to you,” Adam says roughly. “I’m the only one who can see you like this. Fucking _slut_ , Tommy, you’re such a fucking cockslut. But you’re mine now.”

Adam pulls out suddenly, and Tommy falls forward onto his hands, coughing and gasping. He can see Adam moving in his periphery, but his brain can’t match the sounds to anything familiar, anything he can understand. Tommy pants for a long moment, getting his breathing back to normal, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t _want_ to be on his own like this, he doesn’t want Adam to give him space. He slides his hand across the floor and butts his knuckles against Adam’s boot, needing to touch. Needing the connection, as small as it is.

Adam grabs a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drags him up to his feet, catching him by the arms and spinning him around, slamming him face-first against the heavy door. Adam’s there behind him, holding him up with his entire body, and Tommy exhales in a sharp rush. He’s sandwiched between Adam’s warm, firm chest and the unforgiving door, and he wants Adam to cover him completely, block him in on both sides, surround him. Tommy reaches back with one hand and feels for Adam’s hip, trying to pull him closer. His fingers run into bare skin, and he finally realizes what’s coming. He understands why Adam’s hands are yanking at his fly now, pulling his tight jeans down. Tommy tightens his grip on Adam and closes his eyes, waiting. Adam finally gets Tommy’s pants down, barely even below the crease of his thighs but low enough to expose his ass. Tommy feels a rush of air, and then Adam, Adam’s cock against him, riding his crack, Adam’s balls right up and pressed against his skin. Tommy moans and angles his body, pushing his ass back towards Adam, but Adam doesn’t tolerate him moving for long. He slams Tommy hard against the door, trapping his hard cock against the cold wood, pushing his own cock against Tommy’s ass like he just wants Tommy to absorb him, take him in through his pores. Tommy wishes that were possible. He wants Adam inside him, taking over his body. He would absorb Adam if he could.

Adam reaches up and covers Tommy’s mouth and nose with his palm, and Tommy sighs into his grasp, his body relaxing automatically with Adam filling his senses, his taste and scent and touch. He feels Adam’s breath hot against his ear.

“I want everyone to hear you,” he murmurs. “I want them all to know they can’t fucking have you, because you’re mine. You’re _mine_. Now fucking moan for me. Let me hear you. Let them hear you.”

Adam drops his hand down to Tommy’s chin, pushing his fingers and thumb into Tommy’s cheeks and forcing his mouth open. Adam shoves forward, driving his cock hard against Tommy’s ass, grinding him against the door, and Tommy moans. He moans again when Adam shakes him, again when Adam slips two fingers between his lips.

“Get ‘em wet,” he commands. “I’m gonna fuck you, baby, so fucking hard.”

Tommy moans around Adam’s fingers. He wants to be loud, wants Adam to hear him. His mouth fills with saliva, dripping out and down his chin from the corners of his mouth. Adam finally pulls his hand away, and his fingers are shining and slippery with spit. Tommy groans, rocking back against Adam’s cock, and says, “Yes, fuck, please.”

Adam laughs, harsh and unpleasant-sounding right in Tommy’s ear, and brings his wet hand between them to rub around and into Tommy’s hole. Tommy opens his mouth wide, presses his face against the door and keens, wordlessly begging for those fingers inside him.

“You’re a fucking whore, aren’t you,” Adam mutters. “Whore for my cock, my fingers... anything you can get shoved up your ass, huh? You’re so fucking easy. _Cheap_. All they had to do was buy you a fucking drink. Well, I got here first, you hear me? You’re mine _first_.”

“M’sorry,” Tommy gasps as Adam’s fingers slide into him, both at once. He’s wet enough, but the stretch is still intense, a dull ache, and he knows it will only get worse. He forces himself to relax, forces his body to relent and let Adam inside. “I want you in me,” he says. “ _Please_.”

“Fucking cockwhore. Can’t get enough, can you?” Adam takes his fingers away, and Tommy can feel him reaching down to Tommy’s sagging jeans, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and taking a condom out of it. He throws it on the floor after he gets what he’s after, and Tommy stares at it sitting there on the tile with change spilling out while Adam gets himself ready. This is surreal, like dreaming. Like being drunk. He wishes he was.

Adam fits the blunt head of his cock to Tommy’s ass, and he doesn’t waste time pushing in. He shoves Tommy forward against the door again, pinning him, and rocks in smoothly, in one long, powerful thrust. Tommy can feel Adam’s knees bumping the backs of his legs, knows Adam’s bending to accommodate him, and for a second Tommy wishes Adam would just lift him off his feet. He wants to be the right height for Adam, the perfect height. He wants Adam to use him like he obviously wants to, use him completely and without trying to make it different or _better_ somehow. Tommy pushes up onto his toes, clawing at the door and ignoring the tightness in his calves, the burning from the effort of holding himself up.

Adam's hand drops down to the side to grasp the door handle, and he shoves forward and _up_ , and with that added leverage he can take some of Tommy's weight, and his cock slides deeper into Tommy than he’s ever felt before. Tommy feels almost like a butterfly pinned to a board, trapped and caught and dying. His cock is drooling precome against the door, and it’s not enough friction and too much at the same time, too much pressure and tightness and pain but somehow perfect, and Adam’s cock is stretching him so beautifully, holding him open and up and still, and rubbing against his prostate, so hot and tight inside him. He’s about to come, he can feel it building in his gut, feel his balls drawn up tight, but he wants to wait for Adam. Wants Adam to say it’s okay, wants him to make it happen. Tommy drops his head back against Adam’s shoulder and blinks up at the ceiling. His eyelashes are wet and sticky and it’s better to just close his eyes and let the tears leak out from the corners of his lids.

Their bodies are banging into the door now, in time to Adam’s quickening thrusts, and Tommy lets out a shaky moan, remembering suddenly that Adam wanted him vocal.

“Yeah, baby, let ‘em hear you. Tell ‘em all how much you want my cock.”

Tommy turns his head and presses his ear to the door, and he can hear people moving around on the other side, murmuring and gossipping and _listening_. “Yes, I want it,” he cries, clenching his eyes tight. Adam brings his hand up to the back of Tommy’s neck, holding him firmly against the door.

“You can’t have them,” Adam growls. “All you get is _me_. Is that enough for you, slut?”

Tommy wants to cry--for real, not just whatever his body forces out. “Yes,” he says loudly. Adam’s fingers grind into the back of his neck and he raises his voice, shouting now. “Yes! I want _you_ , I just want you, Adam, please!”

Adam grunts and leans away, giving himself more leverage but no longer covering Tommy’s body with his own. Tommy misses the closeness immediately, but Adam won’t let him lean back into the touch. The murmurs outside get louder, and Tommy hears someone laugh, and there are so many sharp footsteps and it sounds like the entire cast and crew is waiting there, waiting to hear Adam come, take pictures of him when he leaves, talk to him and cuddle up to him and leave Tommy on the floor, dirty and naked and exposed.

A thought comes to the forefront of Tommy’s mind then. That boy, the one asking about Adam’s cock... Adam likes him. Tommy knows it. He can _see_ it, and he even understands it. He’s on the other side of this door, and he’s listening to Adam, and Tommy first has a bright flash of possessive jealousy; he thinks, _No, he_ ’ _s mine_ , but that’s replaced by another thought almost immediately. _Adam wants him_.

“No,” Tommy whispers. “Please, Adam, I need you, please.”

“You gonna come, Tommy?” Adam asks roughly.

“I want to,” Tommy tells him. “I want you to come, please, Adam. Come in me. Make me yours, please.”

He’s pathetic, clinging to Adam like this when Adam clearly wants someone else, but Tommy can’t let him go. He can’t be alone, he just _can_ ’ _t_ , and he doesn’t even care that it’s humiliating to beg. He needs Adam, and this is the only way he knows how to fight for him.

“Show me, then,” Adam says. “Show me you want _me_. Come for me, Tommy. Come all over yourself like the dirty fucking whore you are.”

Adam slams him forward again, and now that Tommy has permission, now that he has Adam’s body against his back, he can let himself go. He reaches up over his shoulder for Adam, and his fingers brush Adam’s shirt but don’t catch on anything, and Adam slides from his grasp. He leans against Tommy’s shoulders and fucks him into the door and Tommy comes, without even touching his cock. He’s pressed too tight to even reach down and protect his cock from grinding against the hard surface, and he can’t stop the pulses of come from splashing against it either, can’t stop it dripping down to soak into his jeans.

He reaches up and lays his hands flat against the door, hoping it will hold him up while Adam finishes. He clenches his ass around Adam’s cock, squeezing as best he can because he knows Adam likes him tight, and he doesn’t feel tight at all. He feels loose and wet, stained. Used. He closes his eyes and clings to the door and after a moment he realizes he’s muttering under his breath, chanting Adam’s name, begging him to come.

Adam doesn’t make him wait much longer. He grabs hold of Tommy’s hair again, yanks his head backwards hard enough that Tommy cries out and loses his concentration, and Adam shoves in hard and comes, almost silently. He thrusts in deep, riding it out, and withdraws completely before pushing back into Tommy’s ass, stretching him again. He stays there, the second time, stays balls-deep and close and pulls Tommy’s head back to rest on his shoulder again, massaging his scalp a little as they both quiet down.

It feels like forever before Tommy can think again, his breath coming back and his head clearing. His body hurts, sharp pains and dull aches scattered all over, but underneath that he feels _satisfied_. Calm. Better than he has all day.

Adam moves behind him, pulling back and crossing the room. Tommy hears the sink run, the swish of paper towels -- Adam cleaning himself up. Tommy should do the same, he knows, but...he can’t quite make himself move. Not yet.

Adam still hasn’t said a word, though, and that makes Tommy nervous. He hitches his pants up and turns around stiffly. Adam’s zipping up, composed already. Tommy drags his eyes up to look at Adam’s face, but he can’t read the expression there. He bites his lip, takes a deep breath, and asks, “You...uh, you believe me, right? I really wasn’t looking at...I mean, I was, but I didn’t...I really don’t want anyone else. I never have. Only you.”

Adam’s eyes flicker to meet Tommy’s, and his lips curve into a small smile--one that leaves his jaw tense, that doesn’t reach his eyes. The rest of his face stays blank. “Of course, baby.”

Tommy opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say. Before he can think of anything, a sharp knock comes through the door, and a voice calls out that they need Adam on set again. The sudden intrusion makes Tommy jump, but Adam just goes to the mirror and gives himself a quick once-over before heading for the door.

He can’t just let Adam leave. Not like that. Not when everything feels so wrong.

“Adam!” His voice is desperate. Small. Scared.

Adam stops and looks at Tommy over his shoulder, waiting, but Tommy still doesn’t have the words, can only stare back and hope Adam can see what he’s thinking written on his face. The moment stretches, frozen, and Tommy holds his breath. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Adam just keeps walking, leaves him here all alone. He doesn’t have a place to live, a car, a job...he doesn’t have _anything_ without Adam. Things can’t be wrong. They _can_ ’ _t_.

Finally, Adam turns gracefully on his heel and crosses the distance between them, sweeping Tommy up in his arms and pulling him in close. He leans in, going for a kiss, and Tommy arches up for it, wanting it desperately, the affirmation of it, the connection. But at the last moment, Adam stops, as if he’s just remembered the makeup on his face, the camera waiting outside for him. Tommy wishes he hadn’t.

But even without the kiss, it’s good, it’s better. Adam’s arms are around him, and his breath is warm on Tommy’s face, and Tommy lets himself melt into Adam’s solid weight.

He wants Adam to tell him that everything’s okay, that he believes Tommy when he says he doesn’t want anyone else -- won’t _ever_ want anyone else. If Adam doesn’t believe he can be faithful...he doesn’t know if he can believe it himself. Adam has always pushed him to do more, be more, be _better_ than he ever thought he could be on his own. He’s not sure what’s left if Adam doesn’t believe in him any more.

Slowly, Adam reaches up and cradles Tommy’s face in his hands, wiping the tears from Tommy’s cheeks with gentle swipes of his thumbs. “Don’t cry, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t cry.”

He looks like he might want to say more, but the knock comes again, the voice more insistent this time, and Adam straightens up and pulls himself away. His hands linger on Tommy’s face for one moment more, and then he’s gone, back out into his world of cameras and spotlights. The center of his own created universe. Where he was born to be.

The door swings shut again and Tommy stands there, staring at it, for a long time, half-expecting Adam to come back. But Adam’s busy, and Adam has that pretty dancer, and why would he come back to the dirty, fat guy in the bathroom. Tommy’s gut twists painfully and he drops to his knees, clutching his stomach. He breathes hard through his clenched teeth and looks back up at the door, at the damp spots about waist height. He did that. He’s _disgusting_.

He feels sick, even though he hasn’t eaten anything--he didn’t even drink that coffee, he thinks mournfully. He drags himself over to the toilet stall and hugs the bowl, resting his cheek on the cool plastic seat. It does little to calm him, but he can already tell that nothing’s going to happen. He can keep working himself into a panic, but he doesn’t have anything to throw up, and it won’t make him feel better. He moans pitifully, trying to release some of his frustration, and pushes himself back out of the stall to scoop up the scattered change and wedge his wallet back into his pocket.

With a shaking breath, he gets up and walks to the mirror, wincing when he catches a glimpse of his reflection. He’s a complete mess, eyeliner dripping down his face in weaving lines, spit drying on his chin, hair a hopelessly tangled bird’s nest. He looks like exactly what he is -- fucked.

That’s only the surface mess, though. Temporary. The kind that washes off. Underneath it, his eyes are sunken hollows, bloodshot and deadened, and his throat is shadowed with the beginnings of bruises. He doesn’t know how he’s going to bring himself to leave the safety of this room, the lock on the door, how he’s going to face all those people. He watches his fingers come up to trace the bruises on his throat, turning his head this way and that, seeing how they change with the light. He presses in with one fingertip, watching the skin change colors under the pressure, and then he lays his hand firmly at the base of his throat and squeezes, just a little, just enough to bring back the dull throb of the bruise.

The thought comes wandering through his head almost lazily, like it’s been floating there all along, just under the surface, just where he couldn’t quite see it.

 _Maybe he shouldn_ ’ _t have stopped._

In the next moment, Tommy’s eyes go wide, and he snatches his hand away as if from something burning hot, something dangerous. It’s definitely, definitely time to go. Even out there is better than in here, trapped with his own fucking head and its treacherous thoughts.

He cleans himself up quickly, paper towels rough against his face and his belly. There’s really not much he can do about the spots of come on his jeans, and he settles for pulling his hoodie down as low as he can, hands settled heavy in the pockets, hoping it covers them. It’s not much, but it’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Tommy sits in his chair, staring into the middle distance, and no one tries to talk to him. He glances at Adam a few times, but he’s never looking back, always focusing hard on something else, and after a while he gives up. As the day starts to come to a close, he finds himself getting more irritated than anything. Adam should have just let him stay at home. It’s not like he was helping -- if anything, he made it harder for Adam to get through the shoot. And now his brain is doing things he doesn’t like, having these _thoughts_ , the kind that are impossible to unthink.

They don’t talk on the way home. Adam is clearly exhausted, and Tommy is just grateful. He doesn’t think he can do talking right now. After this whole fucking day, all he wants is to be _alone._

He goes straight into his bedroom when they get to the house -- not Adam’s bedroom, but the one he’d slept in his first few nights here, the one where he’s still keeping most of his stuff. He hasn’t slept there in weeks, but it’s the only place in the whole house that feels even a little bit like his. He closes the door and leans against it, but he can’t bring himself to lock it, shut Adam out completely. There’s a hum of worry at the back of his mind, murmuring what could happen if Adam can’t get to him.

Tommy sighs heavily and pushes away from the door. His iPod is still plugged into the stereo, and he turns the volume up loud, drowning out the muffled noises of Adam in the kitchen. The music doesn’t drown out the thoughts that won’t leave him alone, though. His mind is playing a continuous loop of that dancer hanging on Adam’s arm, batting his eyelashes and smiling coyly. Adam laughing. Adam touching him. Adam fucking him, like he fucked Tommy in that disgusting bathroom. That’s what they both wanted. Tommy should’ve just stepped aside and let it fucking happen. That boy is prettier than him, thinner and fitter and more talented. Adam would be better off with him, really.

Tommy rolls off the bed and settles on his knees in front of the nightstand, ignoring the twin flares of pain that shoot up through his legs when he hits the ground. There’s two bottles of whiskey and one half-empty bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer. He needs to save some for tomorrow, but maybe he could take the spare car over to the liquor store while Adam’s out. Stock up for the rest of the week. He grabs the vodka and one of the whiskey bottles and sets them on the nightstand, perfectly in line with the lamp, side by side by side.

Vodka first, he decides. He wants that boy’s gorgeous fucking smile erased from his memory. Adam’s smile, he wants to keep. His smile, and the hard press of his hands on Tommy’s body, bruising him. He focuses on that and turns out the light.

*

Adam wakes up tangled in the sheets, eyes still heavy after a night of tossing and turning. He presses his face harder into the pillow and hopes he hasn’t disturbed Tommy too much during the night. At least one of them deserves a decent night of sleep.

His phone is already lighting up on his nightstand, and he blinks slowly at it as his brain works to dredge up today’s schedule. Video. Shooting. That whole rock star thing. Right. He rubs his eyes and forces his body upright, and he looks over at Tommy--only... Tommy’s not there, not curled up with the comforter pulled up to his ears, not snuggled against Adam’s side, not there _at all_ , and there’s zero chance of Tommy waking up this early on his own.

It’s the first time -- the first time since they’ve been _together_ \-- that Tommy hasn’t slept in Adam’s bed. Something starts to poke uncomfortably at the back of his mind as he looks at the cold, empty place in the sheets, something he should probably pay attention to. But he has less than an hour to be back on set for makeup, and he’s already gonna be in enough trouble for the bags he can feel swelling heavy under his eyes. He really has to get going.

He avoids his own eyes in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. It’s not like yesterday had been the best day ever, but it could have been worse. It was fine. They’re fine.

The hot water of the shower feels amazing on the tight muscles of his back, but he can’t appreciate it like he normally does. So maybe things had gotten a little rough. But Tommy likes rough. Tommy asks for it. It’s just a game that they play, that’s all. And Tommy had totally gotten off, too. Adam definitely remembers that.

He sits on the bed and leans down to zip up his boots, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. And then he remembers the look on Tommy’s face just before Adam had gone back to shooting. The hot tears running down his face. The rawness in his voice as he’d called Adam’s name.

It doesn’t feel like a game. It feels like he’s fucked up. Again.

But it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault at all. He’s not responsible for Tommy; Tommy’s not his pet. It’s that dancer’s fault, really. It’s his fault for meddling in their relationship, for flirting with Tommy and causing trouble. And as Adam thinks back on his reaction--his immediate rage at seeing that boy’s hand on Tommy, _his_ Tommy...

He should’ve directed his anger towards that boy. Taking his frustration, his jealousy out on Tommy wasn’t fair; Tommy didn’t deserve that. He should’ve taken that fucking kid out back and told him to back the hell off. Tommy’s _his_.

Adam shakes himself, forcing away the visceral memory of those feelings before it takes over again. He recognizes, distantly, that he’s getting worked up, and he takes a few deep breaths to calm down. He needs to apologize to Tommy.

He makes his way downstairs, tells himself that he’s just gonna get his stuff together first, like it’ll be easier to apologize with his keys in his pocket or something. When he gets to the living room, though, he finds himself looking at the couch with hopeful eyes. Maybe Tommy’s just fallen asleep in front of the TV, like he does sometimes, and Adam can go wake him up and kiss the bruises on his neck and just like that everything will be back to normal, back to _good._

But the room is empty, not even a throw pillow out of place. Adam glances back toward the stairs, toward the guest bedroom. Tommy’s room. He’s not sure why a door between them makes things seem so much worse...only that it does. With a deep sigh, Adam shuffles back up the stairs, feeling heavier with each step. When he finally reaches the closed guest room door, he reaches for the doorknob automatically but he refrains from actually turning it.

He isn’t sure what to say. He isn’t sure what Tommy needs to hear. Adam twists his hand a little, just enough to feel that the door isn’t locked, but as soon as that thought crosses his mind, he yanks his hand back. Tommy came in here to get away from him; Adam can’t just barge in. That would make everything worse. He curls his fingers into a fist and raises his hand to knock, but again, he can’t quite bring himself to do it.

If he wakes Tommy up now, they’ll fight, or they’ll at least feel awful about everything, and Tommy will feel worse because it’s so early, and Adam really, _really_ doesn’t want to make Tommy feel worse, and he doesn’t have time to stay here and argue all morning. He’s already pressed for time, and he hasn’t even said good morning yet. Adam drops his hand back to his side and presses the side of his face to the door, straining to hear through the wood. There’s nothing but silence on the other side, and Adam imagines Tommy sleeping peacefully, his face smooth and calm. Adam doesn’t have it in him to disturb him. There’s time for difficult conversations later, when they’re both awake. When Adam has time to explain. Not now.

He steps back and lets his fingers slide slowly off the doorknob. It’s easy, then, to pad quietly back down the stairs and slip out the front door without making enough noise to wake Tommy. He’ll deal with Tommy later. Tonight, when he gets home from the shoot. When he’s had a chance to clear his head. When he knows what to say.

*

The first thing that pulls Tommy back to consciousness is the unfamiliar--and very unwelcome--morning sunlight shining across his eyes, warming his face. The sun streaks across his face and his left arm, and it makes the rest of his body feel cold and clammy. He squeezes his eyes shut and rolls over onto his stomach, trying to escape the light, but the sudden strain on his neck makes his back spasm and tense up, and his arms feel too weak to hold him, and his ass--Jesus, he can’t remember ever being this sore, except maybe... No, not even his first time with Adam.

Tommy finally gets his arms folded under his body so he can lift his head off the pillow and ease the cramp in his neck. He flops over onto his back again and yanks the heavy quilt out from under him, bringing it up over his head to shield his eyes. His neck is still sore, even flat on his back, throbbing deep under the skin all the way around his throat. He keeps his eyes closed and reaches up, trailing his forefinger and thumb over the bruises--because he remembers now, remembers Adam’s hands around him, holding him, squeezing him.

Tommy breathes deep, imagining he can feel the air rushing under his fingertips, under his skin. He wonders if Adam felt that yesterday, if he could count Tommy’s quick, short breaths by touch. He wants Adam’s hands on him again, but now he’s alone. He didn’t sleep with Adam last night, and it takes him a long several moments to remember why, with his brain still foggy with sleep. He remembers crying, remembers feeling completely humiliated by those dancing boys--that _one_ dancing boy.

He’s just glad that Adam had come home with him, even after the pathetic display Tommy had made in the bathroom. But--Tommy sits upright and looks around wildly for his phone, unused to the layout of this bedroom even after only a short time away. Everything’s wrong somehow; the lamp is on the wrong nightstand, and the window is on the wrong wall. Tommy finally finds his phone half under the bed, on the floor with one of his shoes. He swipes to unlock the screen and sees that it’s close to noon, which means Adam’s already gone back to the set. He hasn’t texted Tommy at all, either, and Tommy can’t help the flash of disappointment that burns through him.

He pulls the quilt off the bed and wraps it around his shoulders, then shuffles out into the hall, looking for evidence of Adam. He can’t hear anything from downstairs, and when he looks out the window he sees Adam’s car is gone. It feels like a weight drops down in his stomach, even though he knew, he _knew_ Adam had already left without saying goodbye. Tommy swallows down the bitterness in his mouth and continues on to Adam’s room. The sheets are rumpled, and Tommy stares at them for a long moment. He and Adam haven’t slept apart since that first night. It hurts, for some inexplicable reason, to see the evidence of Adam sleeping in this bed alone.

 _Why didn_ ’ _t he come for me?_ Tommy wonders. Then again, with his behavior on set yesterday... maybe it’s for the best that Adam didn’t invite him back. He has no place with that crowd.

Tommy goes back to his room-- _the guest room_ , he thinks firmly--and retrieves his guitar, hoping to practice some of Adam’s music, memorize it, and maybe even work a bit more on his own songs. He hasn’t so much as looked at his guitar in days, and it feels weird to spend so much time away from it, but when Tommy settles the instrument in his lap, lays his hands across the strings... that feels even weirder. He forces his way through two of Adam’s songs, and then half of the one Adam’s making a video for now, but that just makes him want to throw his guitar against the wall. The song is still pounding through his skull, on a constant loop from hearing it over and over yesterday, and worse, it makes him think of Adam. Adam and that boy, and that boy making fun of him.

Tommy makes a face and folds his guitar pick into his fist, clenching it tight as he lets the thoughts flow through his mind and then slip away. He focuses on his own music then, or he tries, anyway. Everything he plays sounds wrong, and he re-tunes his guitar three times, just to make sure the notes are true. They are, which means the problem is with the song, but no matter how Tommy plays with it, changes it, it never gets better.

He looks over at his phone, expecting Adam to text him. It’s well past the scheduled lunch break, now. Adam should’ve texted. But his phone remains dark.

Tommy keeps working with his song for another fifteen minutes, but none of the chords sound at all harmonic, and none of the melodies flow, and he ends up shoving the guitar face-down on the messy bed with a frustrated cry. Nothing works, and all he can think of is Adam, on set with that fucking dancer. Adam has to come home to him, though. This is his house. He has to come home eventually.

 _But who knows what he_ ’ _ll do until that time_ , Tommy thinks miserably. He slides off the bed to his knees, pulling the quilt with him and tucking it around his head like a hooded cape. It covers him completely, now that he’s sitting on the floor. He looks at his phone and thinks about texting Adam, telling him how much trouble he’s having with his music. How sorry he is for fucking up so bad yesterday. He really wants to tell Adam he’s sorry. But if Adam’s ignoring him, he must still be mad.

Tommy gets to his feet and snags the two bottles of whiskey from the nightstand, holds them beneath the blanket and swirls it around his feet as he turns around and heads for the door. Back in Adam’s room, he curls up on the bed with one bottle in his lap and the other propped and waiting against a pillow, and he gets rid of the quilt because the comforter is better--it’s Adam’s in a way the quilt isn’t; it smells like Adam, and it feels like him when Tommy wraps it around his shoulders. He twists open the bottle cap and holds the bottle to his chest. He doesn’t want Adam to be mad at him anymore. Maybe if he stays here, if Adam comes home and finds him here, he’ll have a chance to apologize and make it right.

Once he’s started to make a dent in the bottle, the noise in his head gets to be too much for him, and it’s too easy to focus on that in the dead silence of the empty house. He scrolls through his phone’s music library, looking for something loud enough to fill the room and drown out the voice in his head whispering that Adam won’t come back.

“Of course he will,” Tommy mumbles angrily. He picks a playlist and rolls over onto his side, staring at the table beside the bed. _Adam_ ’ _s_ side of the bed. It’s littered with magazines and ticket stubs and nail polish, and Tommy reaches out and runs his fingers over each item. It’s stupid, but it makes him feel a little better, and he lets himself linger.

He rolls a tube of lip gloss around on top of a copy of _Rolling Stone_ , catches it before it rolls off the table, and holds it in his palm. He wonders if Adam wore this color today, if he put it on just a few hours earlier. Tommy uncaps it and stares at the applicator, the glistening tip. It’s touched Adam more recently than he has, and that’s not fair. Tommy brings the applicator to his pursed lips, lets it smear over them until they’re sticky and slippery wet. He wonders if he looks prettier now, if he’s less of a mess. After a few minutes, he lets his head fall back against the pillow and closes his eyes, breathing through his mouth and focusing on the tingling coolness of air rushing over his wet lips. It’s not like being kissed, not at all really, but it’s the closest he can get right now.

He looks around the room, around the bed, at the pillow with Adam’s favorite pillowcase, the one that’s soft and worn on one side, with a dusky eyeliner stain that never quite washes out. Tommy isn’t wearing any eyeliner now, won’t leave a mark on Adam’s pillow like Adam has. He has no claim to Adam, or to his stuff, to his fucking pillow. Tommy lays his head on it, rubs his thumb over the grey smear, and holds his phone tight in his other hand.

The music helps. It gives him something to focus on, and he can hum along to the melodies, mumble along with the lyrics. He rubs his cheek against Adam’s pillow and stares at his phone, willing it to speak to him. But nothing happens. It doesn’t light up with Adam’s name, no matter how long and patiently he waits. He finally clicks over to twitter and scrolls through his feed, looking for Adam’s icon, thinking maybe Adam’s just ignoring _him_ but not the rest of the world. But there’s nothing there either. Tommy finally just opens a new message and types out the lyrics of the song he’s listening to--it takes him a few tries to spell everything right, but he wants it to be perfect, doesn’t want to look like an idiot. He’s had enough of that shit.

 _yesterday I was dirty. wanted to be pretty. I know now that I'm forever dirt_ , he writes, and reads over it several times before clicking the button to send the tweet. His reply column lights up immediately, full of people asking what the name of the song is, or tweeting him the next lyric in the verse, or just asking him random, harmless questions. He doesn’t feel like replying to any of them right now--he’s still waiting for Adam, and he doesn’t trust his spelling enough. He doesn’t want everyone to stop talking to him, or for them to make fun of him. He just keeps scrolling through the list and taking sips from his bottle until his eyelids get too heavy, and then he pulls the comforter all the way over his head and cuddles his phone and the pillow as close to his body as he can. The music is muffled now, but he doesn’t mind. He can hear it through the pillow, and that’s enough to keep him distracted, at least until he falls asleep.

*

Adam’s throat hurts. He doesn’t lip sync often, and on the rare occasions he has to do it, he still hasn’t quite mastered the trick of not whispering along with the song, just a little bit, just enough to wear his vocal cords out by the end of the day. He can feel the soreness with every breath, and for the first time since he got to set this morning, he thinks of Tommy. Wonders if this is what breathing feels like to Tommy, today, the ghostly tracks of Adam’s fingers pressing into him from the inside out.

They’d managed to get all the group dance shots yesterday, and today has been mostly one on one work with the video’s featured dancer. Eric. Grin and laugh and get all up in Tommy’s space Eric. Adam’s been struggling to keep himself from lashing out at the kid all day.

Except...except that just since lunch, he’s seen Eric pull the same moves on at least four other people, the same sharp flashing grin, the same flutter of his eyelashes, the same suggestive sway to his voice. He’d done it to the catering guys to get extra strawberries in his salad, for fuck’s sake. Adam reluctantly thinks back to the day before, to the way Tommy had been hunched in his chair, hood up and pulled low over his face. He couldn’t have been flirting less if he tried.

Guilt has been gnawing at him ever since he woke up, worse and worse as the day’s gone on, and now that he’s getting ready to go home and face Tommy, his whole body feels _wrong_ , his skin crawling with it. Someone was an asshole yesterday, and he’s beginning to strongly suspect -- no, he _knows_ \-- it was him. Fuck.

He gets to his car and flops heavily into the driver’s seat, but makes no attempt to start the ignition. It’s everything he’s ever heard from his exes, from _all_ of them, happening again just the same. His love life is the same track stuck on repeat, over and over again, and he’s too stupid to figure out how to turn it off. Even shuffle would be better than this.

He laughs humorlessly at himself, at his weak metaphors, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He was supposed to know what to say by now. He doesn’t.

But it’s really not like all his other relationships, Adam thinks. The other guys he’s dated...they _told_ him when he was being a crazy controlling freak. Some of them even seemed to enjoy it, calling him out and demanding respect and freedom and a half dozen other buzzwords that all made Adam feel like shit. He would _never_ want to limit someone else’s freedom. Except that apparently he does. He glances at the darkening sky. _Fucking Aries moon._

Tommy, though...Tommy is different. He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t once made a single complaint. Even after yesterday, after Adam’s temporary break from reality -- he cringes again -- Tommy had done nothing but apologize. Had even called him back. Still _wanted_ him, even after all that. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing does, right now.

Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what he needs -- someone who can just put up with him, jealousy and all. Then again...Adam closes his eyes and runs his hands through product-thick hair. He doesn’t know where that would end, but it doesn’t seem good. Doesn’t seem _healthy._

He lets his hands fall heavily onto the wheel and jumps when the horn goes off unexpectedly, scolds himself for just sitting here and letting himself stew in all these what-ifs and has-beens. He shakes his head and hears his mother’s voice in his memory, quoting from one of those “classic” novels she’s always reading: _in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place._ He’s not sure he’s interpreting it right, but basically he thinks it means that even the best things suck sometimes. And they’re not gonna make it through the shitty part until Adam gets over himself and drives home and apologizes. He sighs and reaches for his keys.

Just then, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 _yesterday I was dirty. wanted to be pretty. I know now that I'm forever dirt_

Adam stares down at the text, and it takes him a long moment to realize that Tommy didn’t text him that message, he tweeted it. It takes him even longer to figure out that it must be a quote, or, more likely, song lyrics. He wants to run home, find Tommy, and _shake him_.

“You’re not fucking _dirt_ ,” he growls down at his phone, as if Tommy can hear him. “I’m _sorry_.” It’s so much easier to say now than it had been this morning, when he couldn’t even find the words for an apology. He starts the car, fully intending to drive straight home and pull Tommy off whatever bottle he’s sucking down. He even gets onto the highway, imagining bursting into his house to find Tommy sprawled on the couch, game controller in his hands, or a guitar across his lap, and an empty bottle of the cheapest liquor Tommy can tolerate, because Adam still hasn't broken him of that habit. Adam imagines walking in, taking everything away from Tommy, sitting him down so they can have a _talk_ , a real fucking talk, so Adam can apologize and figure out what the hell is going on with Tommy, because _something_ clearly is.

Then he hears Brad's voice in his head, just as clearly as he'd heard his mother's. _I just need some space, just a fucking minute to myself, and that isn't too much to ask._

Tommy likes being by himself. He's told Adam countless times how much he likes being alone, playing his music or writing or even just watching TV without interruptions. Adam very nearly slams on the brakes right there on the highway, and when Jake pops into his mind, he changes lanes abruptly and head for the nearest exit.

 _You don_ ’ _t need to always protect me or guide me around or whatever. I_ ’ _m a grown fucking man, Adam_. Jake's voice echoes around in Adam's head, louder and sharper than Brad's, and it's not like the pattern is hard to see. Adam's just been fucking deluding himself, thinking he'd changed.

No matter how much Adam likes to pretend otherwise, Tommy's a grown fucking man too, and he can take care of himself just fine. He doesn't need Adam constantly watching him, judging him, telling him what to do. And Adam knows that if he wants to keep Tommy, if he wants this relationship to last like his others haven't, then he needs to back the fuck off, and give Tommy some space before it's too late and Tommy starts to think that the only way out is to break up. Adam can't let that happen again. He's had his heart broken too many times, and he suspects Tommy could be the one to break him for real, in a way even Brad hadn't managed.

Adam swerves across two lanes of traffic, pulls into the parking lot of a strip mall, and reaches for his phone. Ziggy's number is easy to find.

"Hey, where are you?" he asks without preamble as soon as Ziggy answers. "I want to go out. Dancing, maybe. Where are you right now, I'll meet you wherever."

Ziggy tells him the name of a bar Adam's never heard of, but then he says it doesn't matter, they're planning on moving to a club down the street anyway. Adam asks who "they" are.

"Oh, just a few people," Ziggy says casually. "You probably don't know them. But Cass is meeting up with us at the club. You should totally come."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Adam says as he throws the car into gear again. He's already looking forward to the distraction of bright lights and colorful drinks, of bodies covered in glitter and not much else, sweating and sliding against each other on the dance floor. He can't fucking wait.

It’s the kind of place he hasn’t been to in years -- the kind of place that will always remind him of Brad. Everyone is young and painfully skinny and beautiful in a desperate sort of way, and the strobe lights never stop, and the music is so loud it makes his ears hurt. He slinks his way easily through the crowd, a head taller than everyone else, and finds the group he’s looking for in a back corner. Cassidy is sitting at the end of a bright orange couch and nursing a cocktail, and Ziggy is spread out in a full body sprawl, his head in Cassidy’s lap. He drags himself slowly to his feet when he sees Adam approaching.

“Adam!” he crows, throwing his arms wide and pulling Adam into a hug. Adam pats Ziggy’s stringy hair and laughs a little, relieved to finally be among friends, somewhere he isn’t required to smile and look like he’s having a good time. “Tell us all about it,” Ziggy says. “Who’s broken your heart this time?”

“No,” Adam replies. “That’s not it. He hasn’t broken my heart.”

“Yet,” Cassidy adds with a smirk. Ziggy slaps at him.

“Shut up. Adam needs booze and boys. Distractions! I think we can help with that, right, Cass?”

Cassidy slants his eyes up at Adam, looking at him for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he stands and tosses back the rest of his drink. “Whatever. I’m just here to dance,” he says, heading out toward the floor. He pauses a few steps away and glances back over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Adam slides his phone out of his pocket, not sure what he hopes to see. It doesn’t matter anyway. No new messages. No texts, no tweets, no nothing. He takes a deep breath and pulls himself up to his full height. He can do this. If Tommy doesn’t want to see him, he can stop worrying about Tommy for one night. Sure he can.

He follows Cassidy into the thickest part of the crowd, closing his eyes and throwing his hands over his head and letting the music take him. It’s hard to lose himself in it -- these days, his brain’s always picking over the production, critiquing the lyrics, wondering if maybe the song would be more effective a few clicks faster or a beat slower. He loves that part of it, loves to talk shop, he does...but now that it’s his business, he can’t turn it off. It’s not the escape it used to be.

His hands find Cassidy, settle around his hips as Adam tries to lose himself in the dancing instead of the music, lose himself in the feel of another man’s body against his. But even that just reminds him of Tommy, of his hands digging into Tommy’s hips, his chest pinning Tommy to that door. Cassidy isn’t as thin, isn’t as fragile, but he’s smaller than Adam and that’s enough. Adam slips his fingers under Cassidy’s shirt and scratches the skin low on his belly, and Cassidy’s hands fall to Adam’s wrists. He forces Adam’s hands away from his body and spins around in Adam’s arms, fitting their thighs together and grabbing at Adam’s ass.

It’s good. It’s hot. Tommy’s not much of a dancer, but Adam loves it, the way his body knows exactly what to do, instinctive, like fucking with clothes on. Cassidy dances like he wants to start a fight, every motion designed to push Adam’s buttons. His hips bump against Adam’s slightly out of rhythm, until Adam’s forced to get his hands on him again, pull him into the beat. He reaches up for Adam’s face, maybe trying to grab his hair, maybe trying to get him to lean down for a kiss. Adam never finds out -- he catches Cassidy’s wrist in a tight grip before he can get there, twisting his arm behind him roughly. His eyes narrow. It’s just a dance. Cass should know that. Cass _does_ know that. More likely, he just doesn’t care.

With his arms around Cassidy’s firmly muscled body, and his hands holding Cass’s wrists behind him, it’s easy for Adam to close his eyes and let _Cassidy_ slip from his mind. It doesn’t matter who he’s holding, who he’s grinding against. It just matters that his mind is clear of all the shit from the past week. He can imagine he’s gone back in time, back to when he could dance with or fuck anyone he wanted, and nobody would care.

Cassidy wrenches one hand out of Adam’s grasp and drags Adam’s head down, leaning in to whisper to him, cheek to cheek. “Fuck, Adam,” he hisses. “This the best you got?”

Adam growls and he almost reaches for Cassidy’s throat, almost fits his hand right up under his jaw and squeezes, almost shakes Cassidy by his neck, puts him in his place...but he’s distracted by his phone, vibrating against his thigh, wedged deep into his pocket. Adam reaches for that instead, his heart pounding. He wants so badly to hear from Tommy. He needs to know he’s okay on his own, without Adam.

 _He is_ , Adam tells himself. _He_ ’ _s fine_. He swipes across the screen of his phone, barely even moving to the beat of the music now, and it’s not Tommy. Chad’s name is glowing up at him, and the message is too long for Adam to even read now, but he gets the gist--two interviews coming up, a photoshoot, and a handful of other shit that needs to get done before the tour. Oh, and those fucking fashion awards. Like he’s not capable of just showing up and reading off a teleprompter. Adam scowls and stuffs the phone back into his pocket, but Cassidy’s there, grabbing it out of his hand before he can put it away.

“What,” he says, unlocking the screen with quick fingers. “Waiting on a call from your boyfriend?”

Adam snatches the phone back before Cassidy can go through his messages. “So what if I am? He’s my boyfriend, boyfriends are supposed to call each other.”

“You gotta get it through your head, Adam. The world doesn’t revolve around you. He’s probably busy. Just like you’re busy. _Dancing_. With _me_. Put that shit away.”

Adam glares down at him, stepping back as far as he can in the tightness of the crowd. “Fuck you too, Cass.”

He turns and pushes his way toward the bar. He needs some space. A drink. _Something_. Of course, Cassidy fucking follows him, talking loudly at the back of his head the whole way.

“I don’t get you, Adam. You could have anyone you want -- _anyone_ \-- and you chose _him?_ Seriously, explain to me what’s so fucking special about Tommy Joe Ratliff. He’s a little bit pretty, yeah, but so’s everyone here. And what else does he have? He’s not interesting. He’s not talented. He can’t even hold a halfway decent conversation. He’s like...like your _dog_ or something, following you around the way he does. Is that really what you want, Adam? Someone to look pretty and shut up? I gave you more credit than that, I really did. Apparently I was wrong.”

Adam finally reaches the bar and turns on his heel, baring his teeth and leaning down to talk right into Cassidy’s face. He lets the words come slow, emphasizing each one, letting his meaning sink in. “Why do you care?”

Cassidy stares back for a second, but his eyes fall away quickly, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking uncertain for the first time. “I don’t.”

Adam doesn’t move, holds Cassidy under his glare. Then he stands up straight again and turns back to the bar. “Don’t take your jealousy out on Tommy, Cass. It just comes off as desperate. Surely you can find _somebody_ here you haven’t fucked yet.”

He’s got his back turned, only sees Cassidy coming at him out of the corner of his eye, and part of him welcomes it, _wants_ it, wants to hit him in his smug little face. His heart is racing, and adrenaline starts pumping through his veins, and for the first time today he thinks he might actually get some _relief,_ an outlet for all the stress and worry and guilt that’s been building up inside him ever since he left Tommy alone in that fucking bathroom.

The contact never comes. Instead, he hears Ziggy’s voice, and turns around to see Cassidy glaring at him over Ziggy’s shoulder as Ziggy holds him back.

“Hey, man, come on, you know I can’t handle the negative vibes. Remember? That’s part of the deal. You start harshing on me and you’re back up to full price.” Ziggy’s voice is about as firm as Adam’s ever heard it, which is to say, really not that firm at all. But Cassidy just huffs angrily and stalks off into the crowd again, presumably to find someone else to bitch to. Adam takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists, feeling strung tight as a guitar string, like he might snap any second.

Ziggy comes up to lean against the bar next to him, but he doesn’t say anything, just orders a couple gin and tonics and then starts humming something unrecognizable to himself. Adam waits for a moment, but when it seems like Ziggy’s in no hurry to talk, he pulls out his phone instead, setting it on the bar and staring down at the screen. Maybe if he stares hard enough, he can will a message to pop up. Something. Some contact. _Anything_.

“Turn it off.”

Adam raises his eyebrows and glances over at Ziggy, who’s sipping at his drink and still not looking back at Adam. “What?”

“Your phone. Turn it off.”

“I can’t. I’m kind of waiting for a text.”

Ziggy laughs. “Yeah, and the whole club knows it, too. You’re on a leash, man.”

That word hits Adam like a slap to the face. He stares at Ziggy for a moment, looks around at the guys dancing and drinking around him, at everyone having fun, free from these... obligations. _Leashes_. Ziggy’s right, he’s completely right. Adam looks down at his phone and turns it off before he even has time to hope for a new message.

“It’s just hard,” Adam mumbles, not meeting Ziggy’s eyes. “I want to fix him but I can’t. I _shouldn_ ’ _t_.”

“Honey, you need a distraction,” Ziggy says, looping an arm around Adam’s shoulders. “I’m thinkin’... something to bring you up out of this funk. What do ya say?”

Adam raises an eyebrow. “What do ya got?”

Ziggy digs in one of his pockets and pulls out a little plastic baggy full of brightly-colored pills. He takes Adam’s hand, drops two into his palm. “On the house, just this once.”

“Ziggy...”

“Don’t worry about it. Pay me next time.”

Adam wants to argue with him, tell him there won’t _be_ a next time. There shouldn’t even be a this time. That part of his life is over, replaced by long meetings with management and early morning interviews on family-friendly TV. Long-term career plans. Relationships instead of hookups.

He glances down at the pills. They’re tiny and yellow in his palm, and they have little smiling faces carved into them, just like he might type out on his phone. He tries to remember the last time he smiled -- _really_ smiled, not just to put it on for the camera, not just to be polite. Surely it hasn’t been that long.

It feels like ages.

He looks back up at Ziggy, uncertain. Ziggy just shakes his head and puts his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Give yourself a break, Adam. Come on, you deserve it, don’t you? It’ll do you good, get your head right again. Trust me.”

When Adam decides, he decides quickly, doesn’t give himself enough time to reconsider. He licks the pills off his palm with one smooth motion and washes them down with a sip of his drink, closing his eyes and imagining he can feel them all the way down.

He heads back out onto the dance floor without a backwards glance, and this time he’s on a mission to fucking relax. He lets his instincts take over, lets his body rule his mind for the first time in far too long. He catches the eye of a pretty boy with big eyes and curly hair and not much in the way of clothes, and he _dances_. At some point, some time while he’s grinding his cock against the boy’s hip, he looks down and sees Tommy’s face through the boy’s dark curls. But Tommy’s blond. This isn’t Tommy. He gives the boy a sloppy kiss on the cheek anyway and moves on, finds someone else to touch and taste and experience.

He’s finally feeling good--it’s been so long--and he’s _missed_ this. He’s missed the music thudding through his bones, he’s missed the naked skin and glitter flashing in the strobe lights. He dances with another boy, and then a girl with purple hair, and then he finds his own spot on the floor and dances by himself, his arms high over his head, his eyes closed, his mouth open wide, breathing it all in. He feels almost like he’s moving in slow motion; he can feel every brush of his shirt against his chest--every brush of other people against his arms. He can feel his hair shaking, sticking to his forehead, and he can feel the thin rivulets of sweat sliding down his neck. He wants to scream, and he wants to laugh, and he wants to burst out of his skin, it’s just so much to take in. He can feel every person in this room, all of their power and their energy, all connected, all coming together in one awesome force.

But everything isn’t awesome. Tommy’s not here. Tommy’s at home, where Adam left him, cut off from all of this. He was crying the last time Adam saw him. How could he _do_ that, make someone cry? Tommy should only feel good things, always.

Adam smiles to himself. He’s good at making Tommy feel good, and Tommy’s good to feel. Good good good. All the good. He needs to be there right now. Tommy will see. He’ll go home and lick all the sadness off Tommy’s skin, one moment of bitterness that’ll be so worth it, because then Tommy will be _connected_ again, _with him_ , and that’s all he needs, ever.

He looks toward the door, and all the shining distractions between them, and starts weaving in that general direction. He’ll get there eventually. He has a path now, spooling out in front of his feet, and Tommy’s waiting for him at the end of it.

*

Tommy’s cheek slides against the cold toilet seat, and he honestly doesn’t know if it’s tears or sweat making the porcelain slippery. His stomach is coiled up in knots, trying to force its way back up his throat, but there’s nothing left inside him now. He spits into the bowl, weakly, and saliva dribbles down the side of his chin. He can’t even get a grip on the side of the toilet. His hand keeps slipping down, flopping onto the floor beside his knee, useless. He spits again, trying to clean out his mouth, and uses both arms to push himself back upright. He scoots back and settles against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other curled awkwardly beneath him. His knees hurt, and his ass is sore, and the coolness of the tile floor is seeping through his thin pyjama pants, so cold it almost feels like he’s sitting in a puddle.

He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, blinking fresh tears out of his eyes. The ceiling is calm and plain and white, and he stares at it for a long time, until he can finally catch his breath without hiccuping, and his cheeks have absorbed the tears, making his skin feel cool and damp. He doesn’t know what time it is, can’t focus his eyes on his phone or on Adam’s glowing alarm clock, but Adam still isn’t home.

Tommy forces himself away from the wall and crawls out of the bathroom on his hands and knees. The carpet, when he reaches it, is soft on his knees but rough on his palms. He grabs the doorframe and pulls himself to his feet, shuffling from dresser to nightstand to bed, clinging hard to each piece of furniture to stay upright. His phone is... somewhere. Under the pillow, maybe. It hasn’t glowed to life all afternoon, all night. Adam forgot about him, probably. Maybe he even went out with those dancers. Tommy doesn’t blame him, only... only he needs Adam here.

He collapses onto the bed and flings the sheet over his body. The quilt’s fallen to the floor, but it’s warm in the house, and Tommy doesn’t want to hang upside-down over the side of the bed reaching for it. He exhales harshly, his stomach churning at the very thought, and closes his eyes. Maybe Adam will be home by morning. Maybe.

Tommy opens his eyes again because he feels a rush of air on his legs. He can focus on the clock, now, which means some time must’ve passed. The red numbers read 4:18, and Tommy blinks at them a few times, trying to make sense of them. Then he feels warm hands on his legs, and he turns his head fast enough to make himself dizzy. He groans.

Adam’s there, behind him, leaning over him and smiling, and he looks too awake, too _alive_ , with his bright eyes and white teeth. Tommy closes his eyes again, relaxing into his pillow. Adam doesn’t seem mad anymore. He can’t really dwell on Adam right now, though. He doesn’t feel like his head is going to explode, or like he’s going to turn inside out, but he still feels dizzy and off-kilter, like the bed is a rowboat on rough seas.

Adam doesn’t help matters by grabbing Tommy’s hips, turning him over onto his back. Tommy’s head lolls against his pillow and he opens his eyes again, trying to find a single spot on the ceiling to focus on until he regains his equilibrium. The fan circling in the center of the room just makes Tommy’s eyes cross. Adam’s petting his thighs, murmuring to him, too softly for Tommy to understand, and then Adam’s fingers hook into the sagging waistband of Tommy’s pyjama pants. He drags them down over Tommy’s cock and leaves them just above Tommy’s knees, pinning his legs together.

“What?” Tommy asks dazedly. Can’t Adam see he’s feeling sick? Tommy reaches down and swats lazily at Adam’s hands, but he’s really too weak to hold his arms up off the bed. He feels shaky all over, and cold where he’s broken out into a sweat again and the air blows across his damp skin. Adam’s hands are unnaturally warm, leaving hot trails behind as they slide back up Tommy’s thighs, over his hips, bracketing his waist, and his eyes are wide and intense as he stares down at Tommy. He’s still talking, words tripping over each other under his breath as he kneels slowly over Tommy on the bed.

“Adam, c’mon, what the fuck...” Tommy slurs. He can’t remember ever not wanting Adam to touch him before, but right now he just needs to pass out again. For like, sixteen hours. Long enough for his head to stop spinning and his stomach to stop feeling like someone’s taken a rake to it.

Adam pauses and peers down at Tommy with a vague smile, and for a second Tommy thinks that he’s finally getting the picture. But he just cocks his head, and widens his grin, and says, “You have to forgive me, Tommy. So you can be better.”

Tommy blinks. Does that make sense? That doesn’t make sense. He presses both hands hard to his temples. He can’t think right now. Thinking hurts.

“Fine, I forgive you, okay?” Tommy says tonelessly, trying to squirm out from under Adam so he can roll over and go back to sleep.

Adam shakes his head. “No. But you will. I’m gonna help you.”

Then, before Tommy can react, Adam’s leaning down to nose at his cock -- his completely soft, uninterested cock. Tommy doesn’t even know if he _can_ get hard right now. Adam doesn’t seem to care, licking at him now, long, slow strokes of his tongue that feel...not bad, exactly, but not particularly good either, unable to break through the heavy deadness the whiskey’s left in his body.

He bats uselessly at Adam’s head, but Adam gives no indication that he even notices, and finally Tommy just doesn’t have the energy to protest. He lets his arms fall onto the bed and presses his head back into his pillow and lets Adam do what he wants. Something’s wrong about that, he knows it, but it’s flickering around his head like a fly, always just out of reach, and he’s too fucked up to give chase.

Adam takes Tommy’s cock completely into his mouth, wrapping his lips tight around the shaft and pulling up, like he can _make_ Tommy get hard. Tommy grunts and shifts his hips, trying to wiggle out from under Adam, but Adam holds him firm. He lifts his head off Tommy’s cock and noses at the base again, and Tommy’s dick is leaving shiny streaks of saliva all over Adam’s cheeks. Adam closes his lips and puts them to Tommy’s balls and hums, pokes his tongue out to lick gently, and then he starts talking, murmuring against Tommy’s skin.

“C’mon, baby,” Adam’s saying. “Wanna suck you off, come on. Gonna make you come, Tommy. Gonna feel better, I promise. Wanna help.”

Once Tommy’s balls are completely bathed and wet, Adam sits up on his hands and knees over Tommy, staring down at him with those bright, intense eyes. Tommy hopes that was enough, hopes Adam will let him sleep now. He wants Adam to sleep too, wants him holding Tommy tight and warm and safe. Adam leans down to kiss Tommy’s mouth, and for a second, Tommy thinks he is calming down, getting ready to sleep, but then Adam pushes his tongue between Tommy’s lips, sucks the air out of him, bites at Tommy’s tongue. Tommy lets his head fall back, his mouth fall open. He’s panting hard, and his stomach is clenching painfully. He can’t do this. He can’t. Not right now. He can’t.

“Baby...” Adam says, his voice slow, breathy, a little sad. Tommy opens his eyes just a crack, but Adam’s not looking at his face. He’s looking down at Tommy’s exposed neck. There are bruises there. Tommy’s been avoiding the mirror all day, but he can _feel_ them crawling over his tendons, unable to keep his fingers from pressing into them, reminding himself of the marks Adam’s left on him. Adam’s fingers go there now, running so gently over Tommy’s neck he can hardly feel the touch. He leans in close, pressing soft kisses to Tommy’s sweat-streaked skin, and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Tommy tries to stay as still as he can while Adam’s lips move over him, kissing and licking every inch of his throat. He glances down at the swirls of messy black hair, but he can’t, he _can_ ’ _t_ look at Adam while Adam’s doing this. Tommy turns his gaze back to the ceiling and blinks rapidly, trying to fight back the familiar prickling and the wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. He lets out a shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight, wishing that Adam would just fucking grab him by the throat again, just _take_ what he wants if he’s gonna. At least that way, Tommy’s brain would shut up, send him to that quiet, still place where he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to _be_ , doesn’t have to do anything but react. This is worse, these gentle touches, these words, because there’s no escape from them, no choice but to be here and present and awake. No choice but to _feel._

Matching tears begin to slip out of the corners of his eyes, running down his face to fall in cold, wet spots on the pillow, and his breath hitches in his chest, too loud. Adam moans in response, his lips buzzing against Tommy’s skin, right over the pulse point in his neck, and Tommy feels over-warm, sweating again, and he puts a hand on Adam’s shoulder to push him away. He needs air. He needs to be alone. He was better off alone.

Adam moves down, sets his hands into the shadowed bruises on Tommy’s hips, and Tommy twists, trying to escape the dull, throbbing pain. He touches Adam’s wrists, pushing at them, and Adam lifts his hands, but Tommy doesn’t think it has anything to do with him. Adam leans down, licks a stripe all the way across Tommy’s hips, straight across his belly from one jutting hipbone to the other, and the open sides of Adam’s shirt are dragging, tickling Tommy’s inner thighs. Tommy slides his hand under Adam’s chest, just to move the fabric aside, but Adam notices and sits up again, and reaches for Tommy’s cock.

“Adam,” Tommy chokes out, his throat clogged with tears. Adam’s hand is too rough, too tight, and Tommy just _hurts_ all over. He releases a sharp breath of air, a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, and it comes out as more of a sob, but Adam just takes it as encouragement. He twists his hand, rubs over the head of Tommy’s cock, dips down to cup his balls and stroke his finger over Tommy’s hole.

“It’s okay, baby,” Adam tells him. “Gonna make it up to you. You’ll be better now.”

He kisses Tommy’s hip, so gentle and soft, then grabs him and flips him onto his stomach. Tommy’s yanked back to full consciousness, and closes his eyes tight, hiding his face in the pillow. Maybe he can just fall asleep, make everything stop in his head that way. He clings to the pillow while Adam tugs his pants all the way down to his ankles and pushes Tommy’s knees apart to expose his ass, slide one wet finger into him all the way to the knuckle.

Tommy presses his face into the pillow, smelling Adam’s hairspray, Adam’s shampoo. He doesn’t even want to resist any more, just wants Adam to take whatever it is he’s after and be done with it. It’s easy to roll his hips back toward Adam’s hand, catching the slow, deep rhythm, letting his breathing fall in line with it. He’s still sore from yesterday, but Adam is giving it to him easy, and there’s only a low, dull pain, hardly worth feeling at all.

Tommy pushes the knot in his stomach into the furthest parts of his mind. He can’t think about that right now, he can’t think about how sick he feels. The pillow makes it easy to wipe away the cold sweat on his forehead and ignore it, and it dries his eyes, and he doesn’t even care that the pillowcase is soaked and cold against his face. Adam presses down on top of him, his chest to Tommy’s back, and Tommy’s not sure when Adam took his clothes off but he’s definitely naked now, all hot bare skin, cock hard and rutting against Tommy’s ass.

His lips brush Tommy’s ear, and he’s whispering in this voice, something that sounds like regret and worry and helplessness all at once. He’s never heard Adam sound like that before.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, I know you’d rather be alone, and I tried, I really did. I did everything I could to stay away. Because that’s what you need, you need your space, I _know_ that. I just... I couldn’t leave you alone, Tommy, baby, I need you. I want to touch you all the time. I never want to let you out of my sight. Please...please don’t hate me for that...”

Tommy’s heart jumps into his throat, and for a second he thinks he must have heard Adam wrong, must have misunderstood. Hate _Adam_? He could...he could _never_. He squirms a little, twists until his face isn’t completely smashed into the pillow, and says, “I want you to.” Adam leans down, licks at the corner of Tommy’s mouth. “I want you to touch me,” Tommy tells him. “Need you to be here, please. Adam, _please_ , please never leave me alone.”

Adam sounds amazed when he asks, “You want that, baby? You want me?”

“Yes,” Tommy insists through gritted teeth. “Fuck. Adam, please. I need you. I need you.”

Adam fits his cock to Tommy’s hole and pushes in, just the head. Tommy cries out, slams his hand down on the mattress, and tries to hold very, very still. He’s sore already, and Adam’s fingers didn’t quite prepare him for this sudden stretch.

“Tommy,” Adam moans, rocking into Tommy a little more with short, slow rolls of his hips.. “Tommy. Tommy, baby. Fuck. _Fuck_ , I wanna fuck you, baby. Wanna be in you all the time, you feel so fucking good. _Tommy_.”

Slowly, slowly, Adam works himself deeper, and when he finally bottoms out, Tommy feels like all the breath has been forced out of his body, nothing left in him but Adam, Adam’s cock stretching his ass, Adam’s body pressing down on him, Adam’s breath warm and quick against his cheek. Adam rolls his hips, just a little bit, forcing himself that much deeper, and leans down to lick a hot streak just under Tommy’s ear, then over his earrings, sucking them into his mouth and teasing at the holes. And somewhere between Adam’s mouth and his cock, the first twinges of desire begin to stir in Tommy, his blood heating, rushing through his body with every quickening heartbeat.

Adam pulls out slowly and thrusts back in, deep, putting some weight behind it, making Tommy feel it -- and he _does_ feel it, his cock starting to harden against the sheets, a moan escaping from his lips before he can quiet it.

He can feel Adam grinning against his neck, though he can’t see it, and he can hear the pleased notes in his voice. “That’s right, baby, feeling better now, aren’t you? I want you to feel it, everything I can feel, god, so fucking perfect. So perfect like this, Tommy.”

Adam worms his hand under Tommy’s hips, groping around clumsily for his cock, and when he finally grasps it, strokes it roughly, dry and too-tight, Tommy groans and reaches for Adam’s arm. He needs something to hold onto, something easy to connect him to Adam.

“That’s it,” Adam murmurs. “Oh, baby, yeah, come on. That’s so good, baby. Feels good, right? Feels so good.”

The room swims in front of Tommy’s eyes, flashing bright when Adam thrusts in again, deep and slow, and Tommy can tell he’s trying to be gentle, but gentle is just impossible when Tommy’s this stretched, this sore. He shudders and closes his eyes, needing the darkness to hold him now, and Adam keeps rocking in and out, in and out, murmuring against Tommy’s shoulder about how perfect he is, how good it feels. Tommy’s getting harder, slowly, in Adam’s hand, and he’s glad. He wants to be hard for Adam, if that’s what Adam wants from him.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect, Tommy,” Adam groans. “So perfect, just like this, so tight. So fucking pretty, baby. So good for me.”

“I’m trying,” Tommy gasps, “I...I want to be good. I want to be good enough for you.” He makes a decision and grits his teeth, and he tilts his hips up, pushes back to meet Adam’s slow thrust. “Want your cock, Adam,” he says. “Want your come.”

“Ohhh, baby, yes,” Adam sighs above him. Tommy squeezes around him, bearing down on Adam’s cock and forcing it deeper into his body. He needs Adam to feel him, take him. He needs Adam to come.

“So fuckin’ big,” Tommy moans, turning his face into the pillow. “Fuck, Adam, come on. Fuck me, come on. Do it.”

Adam’s hand around Tommy’s cock goes lax and sloppy, more holding than actually stroking now, but Adam’s thrusts have picked up, and he’s keeping a steady pace, and Tommy thinks he’s building towards his orgasm. He hopes Adam’s close.

“Please, please, Adam, need you to fill me up, I want it, want you to come inside me, come on, come on...” He’s babbling now, and he feels ridiculous, like he’s reciting stupid porn dialogue or something, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because Adam’s moaning loudly above him, grabbing his hips and pulling him back into every thrust, rhythm going all to hell like it always does when he’s about to come. Tommy’s already starting to let himself drift again, hoping that Adam will just fall asleep after he gets off...and then his eyes shoot open wide again, and he sucks in a cold breath of air through his mouth, a wordless gasp of shock.

He can _feel_ Adam come in a way he’s never been able to before. He can feel the slickness of it as Adam keeps pumping in and out, and he can feel the spasms in Adam’s cock _inside him_. He stares open-mouthed at the blank wall in front of him, not even seeing it, he’s so focused on the strangeness of the wet feeling around his ass. He can’t even speak; he doesn’t know what to say. Adam’s still thrusting, slowing down now as his cock softens, moaning and panting Tommy’s name.

He should have noticed. He should have fucking paid attention. How could he not notice that Adam had never stopped to put on a condom? Tommy lets his body go lax against the sheets as Adam pulls out. He grabs his hair with both hands and pulls it down over his face. He’s the dumbest fucker to ever walk the face of the earth. At least...at least that’s the end of it, he thinks. Now he can pass out again and spend tomorrow not thinking about any of this -- not the over-bright shine in Adam’s eyes, or Adam’s single-minded persistence, or the wetness dripping down his own shaking thighs.

Adam’s weight lifts and Tommy wants to curl into a ball. He can feel come dripping down his crack, sliding between his thighs, and he doesn’t know what to do. He can even feel it _inside_ him, and he clamps down hard to keep it there, because _what else can he do_? But then Adam wedges his hands between Tommy’s thighs and pulls them apart, shoves his knees a little so Tommy’s ass is raised in the air, exposed. The soft breeze from the fan makes Tommy shiver like he’s standing outside in the snow; it’s cold where the come is marking his skin, and it’s cold where sweat has gathered on Tommy’s lower back, and the backs of his knees, and his fucking throat.

Adam settles between Tommy’s legs, and he pins Tommy’s ankles in place by kneeling on the pyjama pants stretched between them. He puts a hand on either side of Tommy’s ass and pulls his cheeks apart, and it’s hard to keep himself clamped shut when Adam’s _pulling him apart_. Tommy feels a little more of Adam’s come seep out of him. He groans pitifully, hiding his face in the pillow. Why is Adam _looking_?

“Yeah, baby,” Adam whispers. “You wanna come, don’t you? You want it so bad.”

Adam reaches between Tommy’s legs and fists his cock, which is... still hard. Even after all this, even after the slippery come leaking out of him, even after the wet noises as Adam fucked him through it and withdrew, Tommy’s _still hard_. It’s so wrong, so fucked-up, but the thing is...he _does_ want to come. His head is pounding and he thinks he might have to puke again and he has bruises on top of bruises, but right now all he wants in the world is for Adam to just fucking finish him off.

He mumbles something incoherent into the pillow, something that turns into a high cut-off squeal when he feels the first touch of Adam’s tongue against his hole. He wiggles his hips, not sure if he wants to push back or fall flat to the bed and get away from Adam’s invading tongue. It’s so strange, it’s so _foreign_ , and he just doesn’t _know_. He’s never felt anything like this before, like Adam’s tongue licking at him when he’s all fucked-open and sensitive and _wet_ , and he’s not sure what Adam expects him to do. He moans, high pitched and buzzing in his throat, and blushes fiercely, rubbing his cheek into the pillow.

Adam’s practically _purring_ against him, and Tommy can feel the vibrations of it all through him. The shaking doesn’t stop though, just gets more intense as Adam goes _deeper_ , draws his tongue into a point and pushes his way _inside._ It’s wet and filthy and so fucking intimate, just lying there with Adam’s face pressed against him, Adam’s tongue buried in his ass, licking up his _come_ , and oh...oh _god._ He’s not just licking now, he’s _sucking_ , pressing his lips to Tommy’s hole in a tight circle and sucking the come out of him, and Tommy doesn’t even _know_ , can’t even _process_ what it feels like, only that he hopes Adam never fucking stops. He’s so hard now, so close, leaking all over his stomach and the bed under him, and the second Adam touches him again he’s gonna be _gone_ , he knows it. But it’s like Adam’s forgotten about his cock altogether, totally immersed in licking his own mess off Tommy’s ass, and he doesn’t show any sign of stopping until Tommy turns his head and gasps in a breath and begs, “Let me come, let me come, please, Adam, please.”

Adam reaches between his legs and grabs his cock and strokes him off hard and rough, and he’s not licking or sucking now, he’s _fucking_ , tongue-fucking Tommy as deep as he can, and in that moment Tommy can’t feel any pain, any sickness or discomfort or anxiety -- everything disappears in a wash of pure, sweet pleasure, spilling out of him in hot wet pulses. Adam strokes him through it, slicker and wetter as he comes, spreading it down over his cock as it slowly begins to soften again.

Tommy hasn’t even had a chance to catch his breath before Adam’s hands fit around his hips again, settle into the bruises there and turn him over, dropping him down on his back with his pyjama pants twisted around his ankles, tangling his legs together. Adam doesn’t waste time; he dives down on Tommy’s cock, pulling the head into his mouth and swirling his tongue over the tip, sucking off the last drops. He sinks down, taking Tommy’s whole cock into his mouth, cleaning off the come clinging to his skin. Adam bobs his head a few times, pressing his tongue hard to the underside of Tommy’s cock, and he holds tight to Tommy’s hips, keeping him still while he writhes with the overwhelming sensation on his sensitive cock.

When he finally pulls off, Tommy melts into the bed and releases a long breath of air through his mouth, thinking it’s finally over and he can relax. But Adam looks up at him, and the whole lower half of his face is shiny and wet, and Tommy doesn’t know if it’s come or spit, but it’s disgusting and sexy in equal measure. Tommy reaches down and runs his fingers through Adam’s hair, pulling the sweat-slick strands off his forehead, gently curving his hand around the crown of Adam’s skull. He doesn’t hold tight enough to control, and Adam moves under him, leaning down to lick all around Tommy’s balls and the crease of his thighs, even up to his stomach, wherever his come has splattered. The flat of his tongue is slick and hot, spreading that warmth all over Tommy, and Tommy’s fingers twist in his hair, just short of tugging.

Finally, finally, Adam slides off of Tommy’s body, coming to rest on the bed at his side and letting his head fall onto the pillow. Tommy turns to meet his eyes, unable to tear himself away from that intense stare. Adam licks his lips -- _licks his lips_ , like he can’t get enough of the taste -- and smiles back, softer now, not the wild-eyed toothy grin he’d been wearing earlier in the evening. Tommy feels something settle inside him. Slowly, the Adam he recognizes, _his_ Adam, is starting to emerge again. The world is starting to go back to normal. Even his stomach feels a little better.

“We’re connected now, Tommy. You’re mine, and I’ll fix you. It didn’t work before, but this time I know how to do it. All those little broken pieces, they’re so sharp, but I know where they go. Just trust me. You have to trust me.”

Tommy blinks. Bites his lip. He has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. He’s out of his depth with Adam, at times, and this is definitely one of them. He wonders if he’s supposed to respond.

But Adam just reaches out and pulls Tommy into a tight cuddle, his breathing starting to go slow and even, and Tommy closes his eyes and buries his face in Adam’s chest and finally lets the heaviness that’s been pulling at him all night drag him under again. The last thing he’s aware of before falling asleep is Adam’s heartbeat, low and steady and soothing, and if it flutters a little sometimes, wanders just a second off-beat, well, that’s probably just Tommy hearing it wrong, or maybe already dreaming, heartbeats becoming drumbeats that play in his head all the rest of the night.

*

Tommy wakes up to the muffled buzzing of Adam’s phone alarm. He knows the sound, and he knows how to snooze it, but when he slaps his hand over to the nightstand, there’s nothing there. Tommy reluctantly opens his eyes, squinting against the early morning light, and looks at the nightstand. Adam’s phone isn’t in its usual spot, which means he has no idea where the buzzing is coming from, and he has no idea how to shut it up. He turns, slowly because his back is cramping up, and sees that Adam hasn’t stirred at all. Tommy looks around the room and allows the obnoxious alarm to fully penetrate his brain. It’s coming from... the floor.

Tommy rolls off the bed, landing hard on his knees, and crawls over to where Adam’s pants are lying in a wrinkled heap. He finds the phone in the back pocket and shuts it off, then takes it with him when he climbs back onto the bed. He burrows under Adam’s sleep-heavy arm and kisses the underside of Adam’s chin.

“Your phone went off,” he mumbles. “Adam.”

“Mmmph,” Adam replies, tightening his arm around Tommy’s shoulders.

“Gotta work today?” Tommy asks.

That wakes Adam up. He pushes away from Tommy, sits upright, rubs his eyes. “Shit. What time is it?”

Tommy squints down at the phone. “Um...seven forty-five. Fuckin’ early.”

Adam groans and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “There’s something. If I set the alarm, there’s somewhere I’m supposed to be. Here, let me see,” he says, reaching out for the phone with his eyes still closed. Tommy hands it over.

He’s starting to wake up a little bit more now, and with awareness comes _pain_ , individual sorenesses that bleed into each other and turn his body into one big ache. He’s sticky, too, the remnants of sweat and spit and come all over his skin. It’s fucking gross. He needs a shower...or even better, a bath. Something with really excessively hot water and lots of steam and maybe bubbles.

“Shit,” Adam says again. “Shit, I gotta go.”

“What? Where?”

“Totally forgot,” Adam tells him. “I’m presenting on an award show next week, gotta go get my suit fitted.”

“Oh,” Tommy replies, a little disappointed. “That won’t take long, though, right? You’ll be back?”

“At some point. Why, were we going to do something today?”

Tommy shakes his head slightly. “I just thought... I thought you would stay home.”

Adam slides off the bed and pads into the bathroom. Tommy looks away, hoping he remembered to clean up after himself. He doesn’t want Adam to see that mess. Adam doesn’t say anything, though, just reaches for the bottle of mouthwash.

“My jaw is so sore,” Adam calls to him, laughing. Tommy watches him rub his face, little circles right underneath his ears. After a moment, Adam comes to the doorway and looks at Tommy intensely, scanning his body up and down. Tommy fights not to hide the bruises on his throat.

“What?” he asks nervously.

“Did we have sex last night?” Adam asks with a tone that is almost, but not quite, as casual as Adam obviously wants it to be.

Something sharp slices right through Tommy’s gut, like a piece of glass or a fucking sword or something. He wraps his arms around his stomach and hunches over a little, not meeting Adam’s eyes. Adam was fucked up last night, Tommy knew that. It was obvious. They were both way too fucked up, and Tommy would almost think it had been a dream, if not for the tacky, damp skin all over his ass, and the tangible soreness of his muscles.

“Tommy?” Tommy hears Adam take a few steps into the bedroom but he still can’t bring himself to look up. “You all right?”

“Felt sick last night,” Tommy mumbles. “Guess I’m not better yet.”

“Oh. That sucks, I’m sorry. So, we didn’t...”

Tommy thinks of what Adam had said last night, how they’re connected now, how Adam will take care of him. _Fix_ him. It must not have meant meant the same thing to Adam, if he can forget it that easily. His throat feels thick and his skin throbs, and it feels like the lump caught there is expanding too quickly, pressing too hard against the insides of his bruises. He wants something to _happen_ , wants something to crack, so he can breathe again. He’d thought last night was it. But he was wrong.

“No,” he chokes out. “I was sick.”

Adam comes over, kisses the top of Tommy’s head quickly, then hurries back to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. “I hope you feel better,” Adam calls.

Tommy breathes hard, staring down at the tangled blankets lying across his lap. His head hurts, and his heart hurts worse. He can feel his stomach knotting up, but there’s nothing inside him to throw up. He can’t remember the last time he ate. Yesterday is a blur, and the day before that...he vaguely remembers the smell of coffee, but that’s about it. Two days. He’s not even hungry now. He hopes Adam doesn’t offer him breakfast; he’d rather do without. Maybe he’ll finally lose those stubborn pounds around his belly and his stupid chipmunk cheeks.

Adam finally comes out of the bathroom with a thin layer of makeup covering the shadowy circles under his eyes, and he snags his knit beanie off a hook in the closet and dresses in what Tommy calls his “undercover clothes”, things the fans wouldn’t immediately spot him in. He kisses Tommy’s forehead once more before leaving, his lips lingering over Tommy’s skin, and he murmurs, “You don’t feel warm, but you look kinda pale. Get some sleep, okay?”

And then he’s gone. Tommy feels his absence like a physical blow. He hunches all the way over, ignoring the twinges in his back as he curls down over his lap, almost low enough for his forehead to touch the bundle of sheets.

“You _promised_ ,” he whispers, fighting back the familiar prickle of tears. It doesn’t work. A sob catches in his throat. “Don’t leave me alone, Adam, please, don’t leave me alone.”

He doesn’t move until he has to, forced into action by the insistent fullness of his bladder. He slides to the edge of the bed and lets his feet fall to the floor. They clink when they get there, heels knocking against the glass bottles that have piled up under the bed, and Tommy freezes, considering. Just the thought of alcohol makes him gag, his body cringe. He doesn’t even want it. Not even a little bit.

And then he thinks about the day stretching out in front of him, long and empty and alone, and he thinks about how he gave Adam everything, everything he wanted, everything he asked for...and Adam didn’t even _remember._ He still doesn’t want a drink. But getting through the day without one...he doesn’t see any other way. His life is too fucked up to face sober. He wipes his eyes dry and shuffles into the bathroom, which smells like Adam’s cologne. The scent makes him want to start crying again.

He used to be able to do this, the being alone thing. He remembers it. But he seems to have lost that ability, somewhere along the way. He doesn’t want to be alone with himself, ever again. He wants Adam to come _home_.

Tommy digs out his softest hoodie and bundles up, pulling the zipper all the way to his throat. He tucks his phone into the pocket even though he knows Adam won’t call or text. It’s a comfort, just having the weight of it in his pocket. At least he’s still connected to Adam, somehow. It’s not much, but if it’s all he’s gonna get today, he’ll take it.

*

“...so then we start working on the cuffs, and this girl’s trying to talk me into the quarter inch, when I specifically asked for the half inch, and she’s just not listening to me at all, so I tell her I want to talk to her boss. You know what she says back? ‘I _am_ the boss.’ So then...”

“Adam.”

“It was just frustrating, I mean, I’m hiring _them..._ ”

“Adam!”

“ _What?_ ”

Brad raises one eyebrow. “Please tell me you didn’t just come here to talk about your suit.”

Adam rolls his eyes, sighing as he pops open the styrofoam container and dumps the food onto one of Brad’s dishes. “Fine,” he says. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You called me,” Brad says. “I figured you had something on your mind.” Adam hands over his plate without a word and Brad sticks it in the microwave. Adam opens the cabinet by the refrigerator, wanting glasses, but... they aren’t there. Brad nudges his arm and nods to the cabinet on the other side of the island.

“Not used to this place,” Adam mutters. “I guess I just... I don’t know. Things are weird with me and Tommy right now.” He fills both glasses with ice and lemonade from a pitcher in the fridge, then hands one over. Brad sips it thoughtfully and doesn’t answer. “You gonna say something? Pass judgement on my many mistakes?”

“You haven’t given me anything to judge yet,” Brad says. “Get the food. Silverware’s by the sink.” Then he turns on his heel and heads for the living room, leaving Adam to wait for the microwave to beep. He separates the food onto two plates, grabs a couple forks, and follows.

They settle on the sofa with plates on their laps, and Adam’s hit with a wave of nostalgia so hard it hurts. They used to do this every night, the two of them, back when they had to because they couldn’t afford better. Adam feels like a lifetime has passed since then, like he’s not even the same person.

Brad pokes at his plate with his fork. “You always give me all the broccoli. Vegetables are _good for you_ , you know.”

Then again, Adam thinks, some things never change.

“So tell me about you and Tommy. What’s weird? _Specifically._ ”

Adam hesitates, picking up his drink and taking a long sip. He doesn’t really know how to say it so that Brad will understand. He’s not sure he _wants_ Brad to understand, but...he has to talk to someone. Last night can’t happen again. He can’t fall into a habit of using regularly.

“Well, I guess...we haven’t really been, you know...talking,” Adam says reluctantly.

Brad stares at him, unimpressed. “Like, you’re fighting? He’s giving you the silent treatment?”

Adam shakes his head. “No, we haven’t even argued about anything. I just...I don’t know, Brad, it’s just _weird,_ and I don’t know how to make it _not_ weird again.”

“Cryptic. Wonderful. This’ll be a productive day,” Brad quips. “Gonna have to give me a little more than that, babe. Come on, do you remember when the weirdness started? Did something happen?”

“We had this... like... kind of intense thing the other day...” Adam says, twirling his fork in his fingers. When he finally looks up to see Brad’s face, Brad’s staring at him with raised eyebrows and a bored expression. “I invited him to the set of my music video, and I fucked him in the bathroom. There. You happy?”

“Is he not cool with having sex in public or something? Did you get caught?”

“No, it was just... _intense_. Like, I grabbed him, and I... I think I yelled at him? I don’t know. I was just... so fucking mad, and he kept apologizing, and I felt like such an asshole the morning after.”

“Why were you yelling at him?” Brad asks incredulously.

“I thought he was flirting with this guy,” Adam mumbles. “A dancer. But he _wasn_ ’ _t_. The guy just flirts with everybody. It wasn’t Tommy’s fault.”

“I thought you said you didn’t fight,” Brad says under his breath. “Jesus. Just apologize.”

Adam sighs heavily. “I think I did.”

“You _think_ you did? Adam, I swear to god... If you want to talk, let’s talk. If not, I’ve got zombies on the DVR. Your choice.”

It takes Adam too long to decide, and Brad’s already reaching for the remote when he finally blurts out, “I went out with Ziggy and Cass last night.”

Brad lets out a breath, stays turned away from Adam. “Bet that was fun.”

“It was,” Adam tells him. “Morning after? Not so much.”

“What did you take?” Brad asks quietly.

“Just some X. We were dancing. It was fine, but, you know... Haven’t done it in a while.” Adam hesitates. Brad still isn’t looking at him, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen. “I did a few lines with Ziggy a couple days ago.”

“You have to be careful now,” Brad says.

“I know that,” Adam snaps. “I’m being careful. I just needed to relax.”

Brad finally turns and gives Adam a smile. “Just call me next time, okay?”

“You never liked Ziggy.”

“Never gave me a reason to,” Brad says simply.

“Never gave you a reason not to either, but you--”

“I trust my instincts on some things, Adam. Your opinion isn’t the final word.” Adam wants to argue with that, but it’s an old fight, one they’ve had enough times to know that no one comes out a winner at the end of it. He takes a bite instead, and Brad uses the silence to ask, “What does Tommy think about your new old friends?”

Adam swallows hard. “He doesn’t really know. I mean...he doesn’t ask.”

Brad’s eyes narrow. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s a lot of things I’m not telling you.”

Brad throws his hands up, almost upsetting his plate onto the floor. “Fine. Think of the thing you don’t want to tell me the _most_ and give me that one. If that doesn’t work, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find a new therapist. Or you might have to figure this shit out on your own.”

Adam stares down at his lap. His food is getting cold, but he doesn’t really want it anymore. His voice is unfamiliar to his own ears when he speaks, hardly more than a whisper. “Do you remember... when I would put my hands around your throat?” He swallows, his own throat feeling thick and his tongue feeling clumsy in his mouth. “Do you remember what it was like, when we fucked, and you were...”

“Of course I remember,” Brad answers calmly. He’s not shouting or anything, but his voice sounds far too loud.

“I grabbed Tommy’s neck, the other day. There were... bruises. I don’t know. It was so... _much_ , you know? It was so much. But he... he didn’t resist.” Adam’s voice lowers even further. “He never resists.”

Adam waits for Brad’s response, braces himself for even the most cutting line, but nothing comes. Finally, he looks up, and sees Brad studying him, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips tight and thin. It’s Brad’s worrying face, and Adam wants to explain, wants to soothe that expression away.

“I just feel like I went too far, but he doesn’t seem to think so.”

“I’m assuming you haven’t talked about this with Tommy.” Adam shakes his head, and Brad huffs. “That should’ve been your first step, you idiot.”

“I can’t talk to him about this. I don’t even know--”

“You _have_ to talk to him about this! You need lines. Boundaries. _Limits_!” Brad cries, pushing his plate onto the coffee table so he can stand up and pace. “You can’t be the one flying blind, Adam. Not with someone like Tommy.”

“What does that even mean? ‘Someone like Tommy.’”

Brad shrugs, looking uncomfortable for the first time in their conversation. “I mean, I’ve only met him a few times. I don’t really know him. But he just seems... you know...” He finally stops and gives Adam a frank look. “Adam, I’m your ex-boyfriend. I sized him up, all right? Tell me you haven’t done the same to all the guys I’ve slept with since we broke up.”

Adam thinks a moment and then nods, conceding the point. “Fine. So what did you find out about him in your sizing-up?”

Brad lifts an eyebrow. “He’s your type.” Adam opens his mouth to protest--not that Tommy _isn_ ’ _t_ his type, but that he already knew that. “Oh come on, Adam, he’s just like every other pretty, wide-eyed little thing you’ve ever hooked up with...except I get the feeling he might want more from you. More than you think.”

Adam’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m not _enough_ for him?”

“I think you haven’t even fucking discussed what ‘enough’ is!” Brad sighs and lowers his voice. “Adam...back when we were together...I mean, it was the first time. For everything, you know? We were young and stupid and didn’t know the right words for anything, and that was okay, because how were we supposed to know better? We were still learning. But there’s no excuse for that kind of ignorance now. It’s not responsible. It’s not _safe._ ”

“I can handle it. I did with you.”

“Tommy’s _different_ ,” Brad says, but Adam just gives him a blank look. They can’t be _that_ different. Brad rolls his eyes and speaks to the ceiling. “God save me from dumbass Doms.”

Adam glares. He knows when he’s being insulted. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.

“He’s _submissive_ , Adam -- way more than I ever was. More... _completely_ than I ever was. It’s fucking obvious. He wants you to take control. He trusts you. And that kind of thing can get real intense, real fast. What the hell have you been doing with him?”

Adam’s listening to what Brad’s saying, he is, but a part of him is stuck on that term, that _label_ , and he can’t move past it just yet. He knows people who use those words, who live that life, and he’s not judging them, really, but...that’s not Tommy. That’s not who they are, what they do. Tommy doesn’t call him “sir,” doesn’t have a collar. Adam doesn’t have a dungeon in his basement, and he never will. It’s just a little bit of rough sex. Maybe a little rougher than what Adam’s done in the past, but...it’s not their _lifestyle._

“It’s not like that, we’re not... _kinky_. I just kind of...I don’t know, I do what I want. I like making him calm. That’s how it started...he was freaking out and I didn’t know what to do, and I remembered how you used to get sometimes when I would grab your neck, so I tried it and it worked. See, this is really your fault!” Adam says, going for sarcasm on the last line. It doesn’t quite work.

“Oh, that’s mature. What, you just decided to choke him and see if he liked it? That’s not how it fucking _works_ , Adam.”

“You weren’t there. You don’t understand.”

“No, _you_ don’t understand. Obviously.” Brad pins him with a hard stare. “God, does he even have a safeword?”

“I... We don’t...”

Brad’s mouth drops open. He shoves Adam’s shoulder, _hard_. He’s angrier than Adam’s seen him in a long time. “You know better than that, you fucking idiot! What if something went wrong? What if you went too far and couldn’t tell? What if he passed out, or--or _died?_ Did you even think for one second before letting your cock take over?”

Brad moves to shove him again but Adam catches his wrist and holds him tight. “This isn’t my fault,” he hisses. “He has no fucking idea what--”

“Neither do you,” Brad shouts in his face. He wrenches out of Adam’s hold and paces the length of the room again, running both hands through his hair. “I didn’t know you were this fucking stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” Adam protests. “Tommy’s not like that. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Let’s just recap what we’ve got here, shall we?” Brad asks. He ticks off the points on his fingers. “You’re not talking, especially not about all the extracurricular activities you’ve been up to without him, and then you come home and engage in completely unsafe, non-negotiated kinky sex, just in time for some more _not-talking_. Oh no, nothing wrong with this at all. You two are the picture of happiness. Please invite me to the wedding.”

Adam pushes to his feet and stalks around the coffee table. Brad lifts his chin and doesn’t back down, so Adam gets closer, close enough that Brad has to look up to maintain eye contact. “I didn’t come here for a fucking lecture.”

“No, you came here because you needed _help_. And you _do_.”

“You have no right to tell me how to be in a relationship.”

“I have every right to tell you you’re a fucking _asshole_ ,” Brad snaps. “If you can’t be safe with him, then it isn’t working, and maybe you just have to be honest with yourself and get the hell out before someone gets hurt.”

Adam takes a few steps forward, and Brad matches him until he backs up into the wall. The sudden stop seems to shock him, and Adam sees his hard expression falter. Adam steps closer and puts a hand on Brad’s shoulder so he can’t slip away.

“Don’t touch me,” Brad says, his voice firm and calm and _quiet_ , even though it carries as if he’d screamed it. He doesn’t drop Adam’s gaze, and Adam’s lip curls into a sneer.

“You’re jealous,” he says.

“Of what?”

“A little late for regrets, isn’t it, Brad?” Adam says smoothly. It’s so clear to him now, so _obvious_. Brad’s been this way ever since Tommy came into the picture, over-analyzing and calculating everything.

“Get your hands off me,” Brad says, louder this time.

“If it’s not my voice you’re jealous of, it’s my career. If it’s not my career, it’s my boyfriend. At least now I know he’s not your _type_.” Adam leans in, close enough to feel Brad’s quick breaths on his cheek. “What was it you said?” he asks softly, running his finger gently along Brad’s jaw. “He’s like you? _Submissive_?”

Pain flares across Adam’s cheek. He catches Brad’s wrist in his hand without thinking, twists his fingers tight. Brad struggles but Adam’s stronger.

“You little bitch,” Adam spits.

Brad elbows him in the stomach, hard enough to loosen Adam’s grip. “Get the fuck off me,” he shouts, squirming out from between Adam and the wall. He crosses the room, puts several pieces of furniture between them. “This is what you did to him, isn’t it? Got pissed off over some stupid thing and took it out on his throat. That’s not kink, Adam. That’s _abuse._ ”

“‘Cause you know everything, don’t you?” Adam sneers. “Your way is the _only_ way. You think you’re so fucking perfect. Well, let me ask you something, diva. How many boyfriends have _you_ kept? How many have there been since me, again? Can you even remember their names?”

Adam catches the brief flash of hurt in Brad’s eyes, but Brad recovers quickly. “You’re not going to make me cry or hate myself or what-the-fuck-ever. I’m not him. I’m not your fucking _pet_.” Brad sets his shoulders and lifts his chin, and Adam knows it’s his way of trying to look taller, but it doesn’t work. “I don’t want you back,” Brad snaps, “and I never will. If this is who you’re gonna be, you can just get the fuck out of my house.”

Adam scoffs but he goes to get his things. He’s tempted to overturn his abandoned plate all over the floor, but he’d have to go out of his way to make a mess, and he doesn’t want to give Brad the satisfaction. At the front door, he turns around. Brad’s still standing in the living room, unmoving.

“Let me tell you something I’ve learned, _Bradley_ ,” Adam calls to him. “There’s a reason we broke up. And I wasn’t it.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Brad’s answer and slams the front door behind him.

*

Tommy comes to in the bathtub.

He doesn’t remember getting into the dry tub, still fully-clothed and with a blanket tucked tight around him, but he suspects the mostly-empty bottle down by his feet has something to do with it. The shower curtain is drawn, dimming the light and cutting him off from the rest of the world, and something is vibrating insistently underneath his back, making it impossible to drift into unconsciousness again.

He flails his arms, making an attempt to grab for it without moving, but his limbs aren’t really as coordinated as he needs them to be, and he just ends up banging his wrist on the tile wall. Groaning, he flips over onto his side and feels around on the floor of the tub. He finally finds his phone and lifts it to his face; it’s glowing brightly, too bright for the darkness of the room, and the words are blurring in front of his eyes. He tries to decipher the letters, chanting _Adam, Adam, Adam_ in his mind, but Adam isn’t the name that appears. It’s Isaac, and Tommy’s heart sinks in bitter disappointment.

He feels sickly guilty a moment later. Isaac is one of his best friends. His _brother_. He loves Isaac. But the thought of even texting anyone else, anyone _not Adam_ , is unbearable...like the mess in his head will spill out into his letters, obvious no matter how much he tries to hide. He can’t deal with any questions right now. There are no answers to give.

He lets the phone ring itself back to sleep and thinks that he probably couldn’t have touched the right buttons to answer it or type out a text anyway. He feels like he’s in some kind of cloud, but thicker. Maybe underwater. The close sides of the tub, the oppressive darkness of the closed curtain, and the thick blanket tangled around his legs are the best things Tommy’s felt in a while. There’s more room here than inside his head, but not too much, not so much that he feels alone and adrift.

He floats for a completely unknowable amount of time. At some point, he thinks about how strange it is to be floating in a tub with no water. It should make him smile, but it doesn’t. He’s not sure his muscles remember how to do that anymore, that stretching pulling thing that turns bared teeth into happiness. It’s a stupid, childish thought, but then again, he’s a stupid, childish excuse for a man. He pulls the blanket up over his head and blocks out the light completely. It’s too warm and stuffy, but it feels like he’s being held, like Adam’s breathing on him as they sleep.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when his phone vibrates again, but it jerks him awake and he finds it tucked against his side. He glares at the screen until it comes into focus, and he’s frustrated again when the letters don’t form Adam’s name. But Isaac doesn’t usually try him twice, and Tommy swipes clumsily at the screen, just to make sure something isn’t really wrong. If Isaac really needs him and he’s been ignoring his calls, Tommy’s never going to forgive himself. He touches something that makes the phone stop vibrating and brings it to his ear, hoping that he’s answered and not just hung up.

“Mmmrph?” he says, in the vague direction of the receiver.

“Where the fuck are you? I’ve been ringing your doorbell for, like, twenty minutes,” Isaac says loudly. Tommy jerks upright, the blanket falling from his head, and smacks his free hand down on the edge of the tub. He must make some kind of noise because Isaac says, “Tommy? You there? You all right?”

“What?” Tommy asks groggily. He knows Isaac is telling him things, asking him questions, but they aren’t processing in his head.

“Are you home? Where are you?”

“Bathtub,” Tommy mumbles.

“Jesus. Answer the fucking door. Let me in.”

Isaac’s never like this, bossing him around like everyone else does, using that exasperated tone he’s so used to hearing from managers and ex-girlfriends and even his parents, way back when. Tommy bites his lip and presses his fingers hard against his eyes. Something must be wrong. Tommy hopes it’s nothing too serious. He doesn’t think he’s gonna be much help right now.

Tommy forces himself halfway out of the tub and flops over onto the floor with a pained groan. The phone clatters to the floor and he fumbles for it, shouting, “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.” When he finally gets the thing back up to his ear, he hears Isaac saying his name over and over. “Dropped the phone,” he explains. “Sorry.”

“Tommy. Come let me in, okay? Come on,” Isaac says. He sounds kind of worried. Tommy wonders if something happened to Sophie. He needs to be a good friend, needs to be there for Isaac. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, trying to clear his vision.

“Okay. Okay. I’m coming. Hold on.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Isaac says suddenly. “Don’t hang up. Talk to me.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay. Coming downstairs.”

It takes Tommy a while to get out of the bedroom, but by then he’s sort of steady on his feet, and the stairs are easy because they have a railing. Tommy decides he likes railings. He trips off the last step and stumbles into the entryway, and he can see Isaac, blurry through the fogged window, standing outside. He opens the door.

“Can I hang up now?”

Isaac’s hand, the one holding his phone, drops to his side. “Fucking _hell_ , Tommy.”

Tommy slips both hands into the pocket of his hoodie and tilts his head forward to let his hair fall heavy over his face. Isaac’s looking at him with something like disgust, and it reminds Tommy that he hasn’t had a shower today. Or yesterday. He wonders if Adam’s come is still on him anywhere, or if Adam got it all when he was licking him clean. He wonders if Isaac can smell it.

“Hey,” he says, and there are other words that are supposed to go after that, but all of a sudden his stomach seems to finally get the memo that he’s no longer lying down. It rolls sickly in his gut, and the next thing he knows, he’s on his hands and knees on Adam’s front step, leaning over to puke into the bushes. Isaac follows him down, holding his hair back with one hand and putting the other arm around his waist, rock-solid and steadying. Tommy instantly wants to apologize -- Isaac shouldn’t have to deal with this. It isn’t Isaac’s problem. He tries to spit out a sorry, but another spasm hits him and it turns into a choking coughing mess that burns in the back of his throat. Isaac’s talking to him, saying something in a soft, worried tone, but all Tommy hears is the rushing in his own ears and the ugly splattering sounds he’s making. By the time it’s over, he’s crying, tears streaming down his cheeks to meet the bile on his chin. He doesn’t think he can stand up again, but Isaac holds him, pulls him to his feet.

They lurch inside and Isaac deposits Tommy on one of the bar stools in the kitchen. It’s really high up, and Tommy feels like he’s going to fall, but Isaac puts both of Tommy’s arms on the counter and that helps. He lays his head down on the cool, smooth granite and watches out of the corner of his eye as Isaac finds a dishtowel and a glass of water.

“Tommy, sit up for me,” he says calmly, holding out the damp towel. Tommy manages to raise his head so Isaac can clean him up, and fuck, that’s embarrassing. He can’t even wash his own fucking face, he’s so fucking useless. He lays his head back down on his arms this time, hiding his eyes. His skin feels wet, and he pulls back again to look at it. It glistens, just a little, and he remembers that he’s crying. He scrubs too hard at his eyes, until black spots start to dance in the middle distance. They’re distracting, and he has to force himself to focus when Isaac speaks again.

“Here, drink this,” Isaac says, and Tommy finds himself blinking down at a glass of water. He wrinkles his nose. Water is pointless.

“My drink’s upstairs,” he says, looking mournfully towards the staircase. “I left it in the tub.” He’s moved a lot today. He doesn’t think he can go all the way back up there. His mouth does taste disgusting, though. He should rinse it out, at least. His breath probably smells awful now.

“I don’t care,” Isaac tells him bluntly. “Drink this instead.” He waits while Tommy takes the glass in both hands and tilts it up at his mouth. Once Tommy’s had a few sips, Isaac sighs and says, “Well, now I’m glad you didn’t show up.”

“What? Where?”

Isaac gives him a blank look. “You totally forgot. You were gonna come over and jam with me today, remember? We’ve had this planned, like, _forever._ ”

“Oh.” Tommy can’t think past last night, when Adam fucked him. Or the other day, when Adam fucked him. Everything before that doesn’t really matter anymore. “Oops.”

“At least you didn’t think of driving like this,” Isaac mutters. He pauses for a long minute. Then he sighs and reaches out to brush Tommy’s hair behind his ear. “Tommy...what’s wrong?”

“What? I’m fine, I’m just kinda tired. Prob’ly can’t jam today. Sorry.”

“This is not just tired, Tommy, this is... something else. How much have you had?” He stops, clearly waiting for an answer that Tommy doesn’t have. Tommy finally shrugs. He just knows he’s almost out. “If you don’t know, that’s... too much. When was the last time you ate?” he asks, already turning to look through the cabinets. Tommy doesn’t know the answer to that question either.

“I dunno,” he says quietly. Isaac won’t like that.

Isaac huffs, a sharp sound that seems more angry than anything. He starts pulling food from the cabinet, and Tommy wrinkles his nose again. He doesn’t even want to think about eating right now. The bread Isaac lays out turns Tommy’s stomach, as does the smell of peanut butter when Isaac opens the jar.

“Not hungry,” he says, but Isaac ignores him. He keeps fixing the sandwich, and he finds one of Adam’s fancy plates to put it on, along with a little tub of the yogurt Adam likes.

“Eat it,” Isaac says firmly.

Tommy obediently picks up the spoon and swirls it into the yogurt. It smells fucking awful and will probably taste worse.

“You didn’t have breakfast?” Isaac asks. Tommy shakes his head. “What about yesterday?”

“Dunno. Don’t remember.” He doesn’t remember eating, at least, but that’s okay, because he wasn’t hungry. He’s not hungry now either, and Isaac shouldn’t be forcing him to eat when he’s not hungry. He already eats too much.

“No wonder,” Isaac says under his breath.

“What?”

“Why haven’t you eaten, Tommy? Where’s... Where’s Adam, why isn’t he here?”

That, Tommy does remember. “He’s working. He has to work.”

“He left you like this?”

“Left me alone,” Tommy moans, and the tears start to flow again without his consent. “All fucking day. An’ yesterday. An’ I _miss_ him. It’s not enough.”

Isaac’s face softens, and he comes around the counter with his arms open, and Tommy watches him approach, apprehensive, but he doesn’t try to stop it until Isaac’s arms are actually around him. He flinches and throws one hand up, pushing back against Isaac’s chest, pushing him off and away. He watches Isaac close his eyes, watches him take a deep breath before opening them again and taking a step back.

“What’s not enough, Tommy?” he asks, and his voice is rough now, not smooth or soothing or soft.

“I dunno, I just... I just _need_ him, and he left, and I can’t--I can’t...”

He’s babbling now, frayed strings of words that get twisted up around every sob, and slowly Isaac’s arm comes back around him. This time, Tommy doesn’t push him away.

“Tommy, do you remember the night before our first show together?” Isaac asks softly, not looking at him, just staying close. Tommy sniffs and nods. Of course he does. Isaac joining Adam’s first tour is one of the best things that’s ever happened. He’s sure of it. Isaac continues. “I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even get my hands to stop shaking. Remember?”

Tommy takes a shuddering breath. “Stupid of you to worry. You did awesome.”

“Because of you. Because you came over to my room and went over the show with me for _hours_ , until I could have played it in my sleep. I think I _was_ playing in my sleep that night, when we finally dropped off,” Isaac says, chuckling a little to himself. “You got me through that day. Maybe now...you could let me return the favor, let me help you get through this one?”

There’s silence in the room for a moment while Tommy thinks, and Isaac doesn’t push him. Finally, Tommy lets his head fall down onto Isaac’s shoulder, and the weight that’s been pressing down on him for days immediately feels a little lighter. “No show tomorrow, though,” Tommy mumbles.

Isaac hugs him closer. “No. But there will be, and you gotta get through this day to make it there.”

The thought of missing a show sends a wave a panic through him. “Don’t wanna disappoint Adam,” he says, his voice going tense and worried. Isaac sighs, and he starts to say something. Then he cuts himself off and starts again, his voice resigned.

“Then you gotta do what I say, Tommy. At least try, okay? Just take one bite. Trust me.”

Tommy heaves a sigh and scoops up a blob of yogurt on his spoon. It’s the last thing he wants to put in his mouth, but Isaac’s watching him with wide, hopeful eyes, and he’s right, Tommy knows he’s right. He needs to get better, for Adam. For the tour. He can’t play if he’s hunched over a toilet, puking his guts out, and then Adam will have to replace him, and... Fuck. That hadn’t even crossed Tommy’s mind until now. He shoves the yogurt into his mouth and swallows it down.

Isaac makes him eat all of the yogurt and half of the sandwich, which is helpfully cut into little triangles. He starts feeling sick again and pushes the plate away, and this time Isaac just takes him off the stool and leads him towards the stairs.

“Where are we goin’?” Tommy asks, looping an arm around Isaac’s neck. It’s nice that Isaac’s small, so Tommy can reach. He tilts his head over and leans.

“Up to bed, TJ. You tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get up the stairs, then, okay?”

“Okay.”

It takes a long time to get up the stairs, taking them slow one at a time, and halfway there Tommy realizes that he can’t go to bed. Not yet. He paws at Isaac with his free hand and says, “Wait, wait, I hafta, I need...”

Isaac pauses their progress and glances down at him. “What do you need, Tommy?”

The question overwhelms him. He needs a lot of things. Mostly, he needs Adam to come home. It’s been so long since he’s seen him. He can’t even remember what his face looks like. He’s wondering how to explain all this to Isaac when his body twinges and reminds him of what had stopped him in the first place. “Oh! Yeah. I have to piss.”

“Okay,” Isaac says with a little laugh in his voice. “We gotta get up the stairs for that too.”

They make it into the bedroom, but not quite to the bathroom door, before Tommy stops in his tracks and grabs his dick through his pants, as if that will make it stop.

“Tommy?”

“Fuck,” Tommy groans.

“Come on, almost there.”

“Can’t. Can’t move, fuck.”

“Come _on_ , Tommy,” Isaac says, wrapping a hand around Tommy’s elbow and tugging him forward.

Tommy unlocks his knees and takes a single step, and then he stops again, catching his breath in a gasp and squeezing his eyes shut tight as he loses it, a warm rush of piss escaping from him and soaking into the front of his soft, cotton pants. He freezes, clenching every muscle in his body, fighting to regain control before this can get any worse. He manages it, but not soon enough -- there’s no way Isaac missed what just happened. Tommy’s cheeks burn hot as blood rushes to his face, and he wishes the floor would open up under him, give him a hole to crawl into and never come out. Isaac shouldn’t see him like this. _No one_ should see him like this.

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, and there’s Isaac _looking_ at him, mouth pursed and head down and eyes so, so sad.

“Oh my god, Isaac, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just, I couldn’t...” Tommy says in a rush, trying to find the words that make this better. There are none.

“It’s okay, Tommy. Here, come on,” Isaac replies. His voice is carefully blank, but Tommy knows how he must be feeling behind it. How disgusting he must think Tommy is. He’s probably never going to want to see Tommy again after this, and Tommy doesn’t blame him.

They finally make it into the bathroom, and Isaac has to help him peel his clinging pants and underwear off, has to stand there and hold him up while he finishes pissing in the toilet. It’s the most humiliating thing Tommy has ever had to do. He wants another fucking drink.

There’s something shining in the bathtub, something Tommy can see out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly he remembers the bottle that had been keeping him company there when Isaac called. He thinks there’s a little left in the bottom of it. There _has_ to be. In this moment, he needs it more than he needs air, that burning heat in his throat that’ll stop him caring right now and stop him remembering later. This is not his life. This is not worth remembering.

He takes a step toward the tub, but his legs get tangled up in the pants that are still around his knees, and he stumbles heavily. Isaac yelps in surprise and catches him by the arm, sending a shocking jolt of pain radiating out from his shoulder.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” he asks angrily, following Tommy’s gaze. When he sees what Tommy was after, the mostly-empty glass bottle nestled among the blanket in the bathtub, his voice goes even higher, even harsher. Tommy’s never heard Isaac this mad.

“No. No. Fuck no,” Isaac spits out, shaking his head vehemently. He knocks the lid on the toilet down with one foot and pushes at Tommy until he falls down to sit on it, leaning against the counter to keep himself upright. Then Isaac reaches into the tub and grabs the bottle, pulling the blanket out after it and throwing it on the floor. He holds the bottle up, looking at the half-inch of almond-colored liquid shining in the bottom, and Tommy can’t help himself.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, reaching one hand up for it.

Isaac just shakes his head. “Tommy, I love you, but you’ve had enough,” he says. Then he twists the lid off the bottle and upends it over the sink, letting it empty out into the drain.

Something in Tommy’s gut lurches forward; he barely restrains from actually grabbing for the bottle. He does put his hands to his face, though; he can’t watch Isaac do this to him. “ _No_!” he cries. “No! Not fair. Isaac. No.”

Isaac doesn’t respond. He sets the bottle down in the sink and comes back to stand in front of Tommy. “You’re a fucking mess, Tommy,” he says, his expression hard and angry.

Tommy crumples, and the tears are flowing out of his eyes now, too fast and too much to even wipe away. He knows he’s fucked up. He doesn’t need Isaac to tell him that. He never wanted Isaac to see it, to _know_. He never wanted _anyone_ to see him like this. “I’m sorry,” he moans. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Isaac turns away from him, and Tommy starts sobbing in earnest, huge, painful breaths of air hiccuping in his lungs, and his whole face is wet with tears and snot and who the fuck knows what else. He’s a mess. Isaac is right. He is a fucking mess, and Isaac’s leaving him. Everyone will leave him now. Nobody wants someone like him as their friend. Adam won’t want him as a boyfriend, either. He’s an awful fucking boyfriend.

It’s really better, now that he’s thinking about it, that everyone will leave him at once. A clean break. If they took their time, dropping out of contact one by one, fading away, drifing apart... Tommy doesn’t think he could do it. But like this, it’s easier. And it’s easy to imagine everyone going on without him. Everyone having better lives without him. Everyone’s always cleaning up after him. They shouldn’t have to deal with his messes.

He distantly recognizes the sound of the shower, and then Isaac’s hands are on his body, pulling his shirt up over his head, yanking his pants and socks off his feet. Isaac finally grabs him under the arms and pulls him up, and Tommy lets himself fall into Isaac’s arms. Isaac maneuvers him into the tub, positioned under the warm spray of water, and he doesn’t even seem to notice that his shirt’s getting all wet. He takes the washcloth and wipes Tommy’s face with it, and the warm water feels good on his face, soothing even though the cloth is rough and makes his skin feel scratched and rubbed off.

Tommy leans against the tile wall while Isaac pours body wash onto the cloth and works it into a lather. He scrubs Tommy’s chest and throat and belly, and he even washes Tommy’s dick and between his legs without hesitating, and Tommy feels more salty tears leak out of his eyes. He ducks his head under the water to wash them away before Isaac sees.

When Isaac’s satisfied and Tommy’s flushed pink all over, Isaac takes hold of Tommy’s elbow and sits him down on the floor of the tub. The water pounds down on his back and the top of his head, and Tommy pulls his knees up to protect his face. His feet keep slipping on the wet floor.

“Wait here,” Isaac tells him.

“No, don’t.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Then Isaac leaves, for real. Tommy wants to cry again; he feels the tight knot inside him waiting to come undone, but the tears seem to have stopped for now. Maybe he’s cried himself out. He looks up at the showerhead and the water washes his face, dripping into his mouth and soothing the thick lump in his throat.

Isaac comes back into the bathroom a few minutes later with one of Adam’s t-shirts and a pair of flannel pants, and he sets them on the countertop before reaching into the shower to turn off the water and pull Tommy to his feet again. Isaac helps him out onto the fluffy rug, and it soaks under his feet as he shivers and drips everywhere. He wants to apologize--again--but Isaac is touching him, lifting his arms and rubbing him all over with a towel, and Tommy can’t even bring himself to move in any way Isaac doesn’t direct.

Once Tommy’s dressed, Isaac takes him back to the bedroom and tucks him into bed with the blanket pulled over him, right up to his chin the way Tommy likes it. Isaac sits down on the bed beside him, laying a hand heavily on Tommy’s leg, and Tommy stares up at him, not far from sleep but not close enough yet to close his eyes.

“Can you talk to me, please?” he asks in a soft voice.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy replies. “I’m just alone. But I’m okay.”

“But you’re not okay, Tommy. This isn’t okay. And you’re _not_ alone.” He pauses, pulling his lower lip into his mouth. Tommy watches him closely, sees the little white indentations of his teeth on his lip, then quickly looks away. He shouldn’t be looking at anybody’s lips. Isaac squeezes his leg gently and says, “Does Adam know about any of this? Are you keeping it secret?”

“This isn’t his fault!” Tommy says firmly. There’s nothing to tell him, anyway. Adam knows everything about him. “He’s the only one. I need him. He makes things okay.” He doesn’t know how to explain what Adam does for him. He knows it’s wrong, knows he’s not supposed to want the things he wants. He shouldn’t want Adam to _own_ him, keep him like a pet. Nobody wants that. It just feels so right that Tommy can’t resist. But he can’t _tell_ anyone about it.

“Then why did he leave?” Isaac asks, but he doesn’t give Tommy time to answer before he leans down and puts his face really close to Tommy’s, so that their foreheads touch. “I thought this would be good for you. I thought you’d be happy now. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Tommy closes his eyes and thinks. Isaac’s right. It is. He’s wanted Adam since...well, if he’s honest with himself, almost since they met. He’d thought about it in terms of friendship for a long time, but looking back, it’s easy to remember the way his heart would beat faster every time Adam touched him, the way Adam could always make him smile when no one else could. He’d never in his wildest dreams imagined that it could actually happen, that Adam could want _him,_ even after he’d realized that’s what he wanted himself.

He looks up and meets Isaac’s eyes. He doesn’t remember what Isaac’s question had been, or even if he’d asked one, but he knows what he wants to say. _Needs_ to say.

“I love him. I love him, Isaac.”

Isaac nods sadly. “I know.”

They sit in silence for a while, Isaac petting Tommy’s hair back from his face, touching his forehead, his cheeks. Tommy closes his eyes and loses himself in the simple touch. It’s not Isaac’s fault. He can’t be mad at him. Isaac just doesn’t understand.

Eventually, Isaac sits up and pulls out his phone. Tommy listens to the quiet taps of his fingers, but he doesn’t ask who Isaac’s talking to. Either he’ll tell him or he won’t. It doesn’t matter much to Tommy now.

After a few minutes, Isaac looks back up at him and quietly asks, “Tommy? You still awake?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Sophie and I have this, uh, appointment, and we really can’t miss it. But Adam says he’s on his way, so just stay in bed and go to sleep, okay? Promise me you’ll just wait for him?”

 _Adam._ Tommy nods quickly. He doesn’t want Isaac to be here when Adam gets home. This is their place, just the two of them. He loves Isaac, but he doesn’t belong here. He’s not part of this.

“I promise. Sleepy anyway,” Tommy says, burrowing further into the blankets and closing his eyes.

Isaac seems to hesitate for a long time, but finally, finally he goes, his soft, even footsteps disappearing down the stairs. Tommy strains to hear the sounds of the front door opening and closing again, and then Isaac’s car starting in the driveway. Once Isaac’s gone, the house gets really quiet, in a way Tommy hadn’t noticed earlier. This time he doesn’t have a drink to drown out--wait. He does. Downstairs. Adam has drinks, a whole cabinet full of them.

Tommy thinks about getting up, rolling out of bed and grabbing the alcohol and coming back to bed, but Adam will be home soon. He doesn’t feel all that up to moving, and once Adam’s here, he’ll be okay again. Adam will drown everything out.

Slowly, slowly, he slides one hand up the line of his body, closing his eyes as he lets it settle around his throat. It’s not the same as when Adam does it, not even close, but it helps him _remember_ , and that’s so much better than nothing. When he presses in, he can feel old bruises complaining under the touch, and he can hear his breathing get louder as the air has to fight to get through the pressure. It puts a sleepy smile on his face, and he feels better than he has all day long. When Adam gets home, he won’t have any room left to feel bad at all.

Adam’s so good at that. Even last night, when he thought he couldn’t feel good, thought he was too sick, Adam proved him wrong. But Adam’s always been smarter than him, better looking and more talented and just...better at everything, really. Tommy has no idea why Adam’s even wasting his time with him, when he could have anyone, anyone in the world. The thought terrifies him, and his eyes open again, staring up at the blankness of the ceiling. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Adam.

It’s nothing like he thought it would be, being with Adam; there’s no white picket fence like he imagined when he was a kid, and they don’t do the same things Tommy did with his girlfriends, but it’s better than that. What they have is better. They don’t have to deal with that social bullshit. Tommy thinks their relationship might even be perfect some day, when Adam doesn’t have to work so much, doesn’t have to be away. He thinks about being on tour, traveling everywhere with Adam, living with him in a tiny bus bedroom. The idea makes a shiver of excitement run through him. This house is too big. All they need is a bed.

Tommy sighs and rolls onto his stomach, spreading his legs apart a little and sliding his hands under his pillow, and settles in to wait.

*

Adam’s been sitting on the beach so long his face is starting to burn, and he sighs at the sun just now setting into the ocean. He has to be on TV tomorrow. The makeup people are going to kill him.

He hadn’t meant to fight with Brad. But then again, they never had, not even at the very end when it was starting to become obvious that it was over. It’s just...Brad has never been able to leave things alone. He thinks everything through, every facet and angle, and talking to him makes Adam do the same. He’s been here for hours now, watching the waves and thinking, but it hasn’t helped. Things are just as unclear as they were this morning, just as confusing. He needs to talk to Tommy. He needs Tommy to _explain_ \-- if he even understands himself. They need to clear the air, and that’s kind of fucking scary. What if... What if they aren’t right for each other? What if Brad was right about that, too?

He lets his head fall forward onto his knees and closes his eyes. This can’t have been a mistake. They’re right. They work. They love each other. Whatever’s wrong, whatever’s weird...they can fix it. If only he can drag himself off this beach and go do it.

Just then, his phone sounds in his pocket, breaking him out of his thoughts. It’s Isaac, texting him. _Where are you?_

Adam loves Isaac, and he’s glad Isaac is part of his band, but... they don’t really hang out. Adam gives his phone a befuddled look and types out, _beach. why?_

 _Tommy_ , comes Isaac’s reply only a few seconds later.

Everything freezes for a second, and if Adam has ever doubted his feelings for Tommy, the horrified chill that goes through him in that moment proves otherwise. He swallows hard and forces his fingers to move. _Why what_ ’ _s wrong is he ok???_

 _Sort of, can you just come home,_ Isaac sends back.

Adam’s already on his feet, tripping through the sand in his hurry to get back to the car. He sends a quick _on my way_ and shoves his phone in his pocket, not waiting for another reply. Brad’s right, he is a fucking horrible boyfriend, sitting here on the fucking beach all day long when Tommy needed him.

Isaac’s not there when he gets home, and Adam hurries through the house, poking his head in the living room and kitchen, and even outside by the pool, before taking the stairs two at a time. Tommy’s in their bed, blanket pulled up to his ears, sleeping. Adam lets out a huge sigh of relief. He decides to let Tommy sleep a bit longer and ducks into the bathroom quietly to wash his face, but the bathroom smells... fucking awful, like a house party, but just in this room.

He flips on the light and sees an empty bottle in the sink, and Tommy’s blanket strewn across the floor, along with a damp towel. Adam hangs them up on the hooks on the wall, hoping they’ll dry out and stop smelling, before turning back to the sink. He picks up the bottle and stares blankly at the label, then looks out the door at Tommy, passed out in the bed. Fuck. _Fuck._

Tommy’s always liked his alcohol. Adam has, too. He’s never said a word to anyone about how much they chose to drink, because he’d feel like a fucking hypocrite if he did. But now that he’s thinking about it...maybe this time, he should have made an exception. Bits and pieces start to fall into place in his head, almost too fast to follow -- the look on Tommy’s ex-girlfriend’s face whenever they would go out barhopping. What Ziggy had said, about Tommy hugging the bar, never turning down a drink from anyone. His own rapidly diminishing alcohol cabinet, which he’s just sort of been not thinking about for a while now. It adds up. It really does.

He sets the bottle down again, carefully, and goes back into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed. Tommy doesn’t even stir as Adam’s weight shifts the mattress. He’s on his stomach, his head turned to the side, and his hair is falling over his eyes. Adam reaches out and tucks it back behind his ear, as gently as he can. Tommy’s eyes are shadowed, either bruised or smeared with makeup, Adam honestly can’t tell. Adam knows Tommy’s prone to bouts of insomnia, but he’d thought Tommy had been sleeping pretty well lately. _Or drinking himself to sleep_ , says a sly voice in his head. Now that he’s made the connections, he can’t stop thinking about it, can’t take it back. He shakes his head, hardly able to believe he’s only just getting this now. How could he not have _known?_

He strokes his fingers along Tommy’s jaw, then up over his cheek. “Baby,” he whispers. He’s reluctant to wake Tommy when he’s sleeping so peacefully, but they need to talk. They _need_ to. He touches Tommy’s face more firmly and says, “Tommy. Baby, wake up.”

Tommy’s long eyelashes flutter against his cheek. Adam moves his hand to Tommy’s shoulder and shakes him a little, and then Tommy’s eyes fly open, wide and dark and almost manic-looking.

“Adam!” he says, his voice rough. “Adam.”

“Hey, Tommy,” Adam says softly.

“I missed you,” Tommy replies. Adam pets the side of his face again.

“I know, baby.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. He’s never been good at this. Talking about other people’s relationships, about love in general, yes. About his own...not so much. “I think... I think we need to talk about some things.”

Tommy’s eyes immediately go shuttered, and Adam hates himself for putting that look on Tommy’s face. Tommy shuts people out all the time, but not him. Never him.

“About what?” Tommy asks quietly.

Adam shuffles through the blankets until he finds Tommy’s hand, holding on, rubbing his thumb over Tommy’s wrist in slow strokes. How do you do this? How do you tell someone you love there’s something wrong with them? Adam believes in love, the real, pure, unconditional kind. It doesn’t feel right, to have to do this, and he wishes that he could take them back to the beginning, before things got to this point. He should have noticed. He should have fixed this. Now...now he worries it might be too late.

“Tommy. I think... I think you’re drinking too much. I mean, lately . I know it might not seem that way, but... I think it’s too much. And I didn’t realize, and I’m sorry, but--”

Tommy shakes his head against the pillow. “Isaac told you to say that, didn’t he? I maybe had a little too much today, but it’s just once. He just caught me at a bad time.”

Adam bites his lip. “I don’t know. It seems like it’s been more than one time. Like it’s been building up for a while. I mean, when was the last time you went a day without drinking?”

Tommy hesitates. Starts to speak. Cuts himself off again.

“Baby, I’m not mad at you, really I’m not. I’m just worried. I just want to talk. If this is...I mean, I’ve seen it happen before. Addiction doesn’t get better if you just ignore it. It only gets worse.”

“No!” Tommy says suddenly. “No. It’s not anything like that. It’s just... I need you, and you’ve been gone, and... I only need it when you’re not here, that’s the only time. If you weren’t gone so much...”

“What, so it’s my fault?” Adam asks, and he can’t force his voice out of a shrill, annoying tone. He’s angry and scared and this _isn_ ’ _t_ his fault. He just didn’t know, that’s not his fault. Tommy hid this from him. “This isn’t me, Tommy, this is you.”

Tommy’s face falls. “I just... I didn’t... I’m sorry.”

“And that’s the other thing,” Adam says, gaining momentum. “You always say you’re sorry. You’re just so fucking sorry. Well, I don’t believe you.”

“But I _am_ ,” Tommy protests. “I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just that I miss you. I miss you so much when you’re not here, Adam, please. I don’t know what to do on my own, except...wait. I need you here. I need to be with you.”

“That’s not--”

“You make it better,” Tommy says, sitting up fully. “You help me. You make everything okay, and I didn’t want to mess that up, I’m sorry. Let me--Let me make it up to you. Please. Let me.”

And then Tommy’s falling to his knees beside the bed, at Adam’s feet, crawling up between his legs and frantically working at the fly of his pants. Adam wants to pull his hands away; Tommy’s fingers are fucking _shaking_ , and he can just imagine Brad’s reaction. _Taking advantage_ , he’d say. But he’s not here, he doesn’t realize. Tommy’s messed up. If he wants this--if it _helps him_ , then who is Adam to refuse?

“Please,” Tommy’s whispering, chanting, saying Adam’s name over and over. “Adam, I need--Let me do this, please, Adam, please, I need you. Please. I’ll make it up to you, I’ll be so good for you, I promise, I’ll be better. Just please let me.”

Tommy finally gets Adam’s pants open and he hauls Adam’s cock out eagerly. Adam hates that he can even _get_ hard right now, when things are so fucked up, but Tommy on his knees, so fucking desperate for a taste of him--it won’t take him long. Tommy wraps a hand around the base of Adam’s cock and lifts it, pulls the head into his mouth and licks sloppily, slicking him up before pulling off again and stroking Adam with his hand. Adam feels a moan building in his chest, and he tries to keep quiet, let Tommy do what he wants, but Tommy puts his mouth back on Adam’s cock and Adam lets out a long, low sound. Tommy responds with one of his own, something higher-pitched and more frantic as he slides his lips down over Adam’s cock. He keeps going down, down, down, further than usual, more than Adam’s seen him take before, and Adam gasps, throwing his head back and thrusting his hips up involuntarily.

Tommy gags and coughs and pulls off for long enough to catch a breath of air, but then he dives back down and forces himself down until Adam’s cock is hitting the back of his throat again. Adam wraps a hand in the sheet and fists it tight to keep from grabbing Tommy’s hair, pulling him down and fucking his throat. Tommy doesn’t last long before sitting back on his heels, gasping for air. He keeps jacking Adam’s cock and looks up at him with his eyes wet and pleading.

“Please,” he says. “Please, Adam, please. I need you, let me do this for you, please.”

Adam finally understands what Tommy means, then. He doesn’t mean _let him_ , he means _make him_. Adam slides his fingers through Tommy’s hair, taking it out of his face and back behind his ear. Tommy’s still watching him, his mouth hanging open and his lips slick and shining with spit. Adam runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair again and lets his fingers curl, lets them snag and twist and pull Tommy’s head back, and Tommy’s eyes slip closed and he sighs and his shoulders slump.

“You want this,” Adam says roughly. “You want my cock.”

“Yes--”

“You want it down your fucking throat,” he says. “You wanna fucking choke on it, don’t you, baby?”

“Adam, please...”

“You wanna make it up to me?” Adam asks, leaning down to tower over Tommy. “Fucking look at me, Tommy. You want to make it up to me? You want to be better?”

Tommy’s eyes fly open. “Yes. Yes, Adam, please--”

Adam stares at Tommy then, takes in the blissful look on his face, the way he presses into Adam’s rough touch rather than pulling away. He’s speaking before he realizes, thinking aloud. “You would do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you?” Tommy nods as best he can with Adam holding him as he is, but Adam continues before he can answer. “Anything at all, as long as I was the one asking. What would you do, Tommy? Would you crawl for me?”

Tommy actually sinks in Adam’s grasp, like he wants his hands on the floor. “Yes,” he gasps. “Adam, please...”

“Would you call me sir? Show me respect?”

“Yes, sir, Adam, I--”

“Would you wear a collar? So I could take you around and tie you up? Huh?”

“ _Yes_ , Adam, please, anything!”

Adam yanks Tommy forward, back between his legs, so his cock slides against Tommy’s cheek, leaving a wet trail of precome. “Would you lick my ass, Tommy? Would you rim me? Lay back and let me sit on your face? Fuck me if I told you to, not come until I let you, until I give you permission? Let me tattoo my name all over you, so everyone knows you’re mine?” He grabs his cock with his other hand and rubs it up over the bridge of Tommy’s nose, then down over his open lips. Tommy’s tongue pokes out, straining to touch, but Adam slaps his cock on Tommy’s lips and drags Tommy back, out of reach.

There are tears in Tommy’s eyes now, and Adam guesses they aren’t from nearly choking on his cock this time, but Tommy still meets his gaze. Adam twists his fingers viciously in Tommy’s hair, waiting for Tommy’s wince of pain.

“Would you stop drinking?” he asks in a low voice. “If I said to stop, would you stop?”

“Yes,” Tommy cries. “Yes. Adam, I don’t--I don’t need it when you’re with me, please, please don’t leave me. I just need you, Adam.”

“Then take me,” Adam says, and pulls Tommy down onto his cock again. He doesn’t hold back now, doesn’t _need_ to. Tommy wants it, all he’s got and more, and Adam gives it to him, holds him by the hair and fucks right into the soft, fluttering muscles in his throat, ignoring Tommy’s chokes and gags. “Breathe, baby, come on, you can take it,” he murmurs, not letting Tommy up, not giving him an inch.

He ticks off the seconds in his head as best he can through the electric buzzing in his blood, the hot throbbing of his cock nestled tight in Tommy’s mouth, and when he decides it’s time, he drags Tommy off by the hair, holding him out of reach again. The motion is emphatic enough to knock Tommy a little off balance, and he sinks down to his heels, his face hovering just below Adam’s cock. He immediately tries to recover himself, but Adam tightens his grip, keeps him right where he is.

“You’re not gonna move. You’re gonna sit right there and be still for me, aren’t you, Tommy? Gonna be good,” he says, keeping his eyes on Tommy’s face and jacking his cock with his free hand. Tommy’s left just the right amount of slickness behind, wet but not _too_ wet, and Adam’s so close he can almost taste it coming, vibrating up from the very core of him.

Tommy doesn’t even answer, just _obeys_ , going absolutely still and staring at Adam’s cock intensely, waiting, waiting. He looks so fucking pretty, so... _enraptured_. Like he really would do anything Adam asked, _anything_ , no matter how crazy or fucked up. It’s like a high, that knowledge, and Adam jerks his hips. Tommy looks hopeful for a second, like he’s wanting Adam’s cock back in his mouth, but Adam just aims higher on his face and tightens his grip and comes, streaking across Tommy’s forehead and down one side of his nose, then dragging him close again to smear it on his opposite cheek, right beneath his eye.

He rests the tip of his cock on Tommy’s bottom lip as he finishes, and Tommy’s tongue darts out to lick away the last of it, tiny little laps on oversensitive flesh that have Adam shivering through the aftershocks. Tommy is beautiful like this, eyes closed, lips wet and shining, face marked up dirty and perfect with Adam’s come. Adam pulls him back, just a bit, just enough to let him know he’s finished with Adam’s cock. Then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, inspecting Tommy’s face.

“What a gorgeous mess you are,” he whispers, and Tommy smiles, takes it as the praise it is. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Adam reaches up and drags two fingers through the streak of come on Tommy’s cheek, collecting it up. Then he holds them in front of Tommy’s mouth and waits, watching. He doesn’t want to have to give the order. He wants Tommy to _know._

Tommy’s eyes go wide, and when he looks up, Adam’s not sure what he’s going to see, surprise or revulsion or excitement or something else entirely. When he finally figures it out, it looks like...gratitude. Like Tommy’s thanking him in his head as he opens his mouth and eagerly sucks Adam’s fingers inside, licking the come off of them as thoroughly as he can. Adam repeats the motions slowly and deliberately, swiping his fingers over the thick white smears of come on Tommy’s face and bringing them back to his mouth, feeding it all to him a little at a time, until his face is clean again. Tommy’s breathing quick, shallow breaths, licking his lips, and Adam can see how hard his cock is, tenting out his pants.

“So good for me, baby, so fucking good,” he says on a sigh, and reaches out to pull Tommy up to him again, intending to lay him down and suck him off sweet and deep and slow, like a reward.

“No,” Tommy murmurs, and the smile slides right off Adam’s face.

“No what, baby?” he asks, pushing himself off the bed and slowly sinking to his knees in the small space between Tommy and the bed. Tommy looks even more upset once Adam gets to eye level, and he keeps shaking his head.

“I’m not--I’m not good, I’m--I messed up,” he says, his voice shredded and rough. “I’m not good, Adam. I didn’t... I need more. I need... I’m--I’m bad, I’m fuckin’... Adam, please, I need more, I can’t--”

“Shh, baby, shh,” Adam whispers, pressing a finger to Tommy’s lips to quiet him. “What do you want, baby? Tommy, shhh. What do you want?”

“I fucked up,” Tommy tells him tearfully, “I just need more, Adam, please, I need you. _Please_.”

“You want more?” Adam asks, and something heavy settles in his gut. Brad told him Tommy would be like this, he said Tommy would want too much, more than Adam could give. Adam grits his teeth, lets the frustration course through him. He can give Tommy more. He can do it. He can handle it. “You want it harder, Tommy? You want it to hurt?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tommy gasps, putting his hands on both of Adam’s shoulders. “Please.”

“You want me to hurt you?” Adam asks. “Is that what you fucking need?”

Tommy just moans, beyond words now, and buries his face in Adam’s neck. His skin is burning hot, flushed with embarrassment or desire or just from Adam fucking his mouth, Adam doesn’t know. But he understands now. He knows what Tommy’s been asking for all this time, what he hasn’t been able to say. And if he’s really honest with himself, he wants it too. If Tommy is giving him this, this _opportunity_ , putting himself in Adam’s hands like unsculpted clay...he’s gonna take it. More than anything, he wants Tommy to be happy, and maybe Tommy’s right. Maybe this is the way. What, as he’s said so many times, he _needs._

Adam grabs the hem of Tommy’s shirt, down at his back, and yanks it up, finally pushing Tommy away from him so he can get it over Tommy’s head. “Strip,” he commands, tossing first Tommy’s shirt and then his own to the side. Tommy pushes his flannel pants down his bony hips and squirms around on the floor to get them off his feet, and then he settles back on his knees in front of Adam, waiting and _anticipating_.

Adam stares at him for a moment that stretches long and silent between them. Tommy never drops his gaze. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his face is a mess, still. His eyes are red and his lips are swollen, and all Adam wants to do right now is fuck him up more. Give him what he _wants_. He clenches his hands into fists, not even sure what to do next, and then Tommy’s lips move soundlessly. “Please,” he mouths. “Adam, please.”

Adam’s hand swings out in front of him, before he even realizes what he’s doing, and the back of his hand connects with Tommy’s face with a loud, harsh slap. Tommy’s thrown to the side, collapsed on the floor with one arm curled under him and the other creeping up to touch his face, the bright red mark across his cheek. He starts to push himself back up on his knees, then, but Adam stands up and stalks over to him and nudges Tommy’s side with his boot, flipping him down onto his stomach.

“That what you fucking want?” he snarls, pushing at Tommy’s shoulders and hips until he’s flat on the floor.

Tommy’s hands flex open and closed, trying to get a grip on the smooth wood floor. His nails keep slipping, making little, tiny clacking sounds. “Yes,” he breathes. “More.”

“What was that?” Adam asks, stomping his foot down near Tommy’s face. Tommy flinches at the sharp sound. “Speak up.”

“More,” Tommy says, still quiet. Still like he’s fucking scared of asking.

“Louder,” Adam snaps. “What the fuck do you want, Tommy? What do you want?”

“More, I need more,” Tommy shouts, ending on a breathless sob. Adam drops into a crouch at Tommy’s side and slides his hand down Tommy’s spine, lingering over each bony nub. He slips his fingertips into Tommy’s crack, quick and teasing, then takes his hand back and slaps it hard on the fleshiest part of Tommy’s ass, down where it curves into his thigh.

A jolt goes through Tommy’s body and he jerks forward, tension arcing through each of his limbs, but in the next second, he tilts his hips up, moans harshly, and says, “Fuck, _more_.”

Adam hits him again, and again, and again, and each time, Tommy asks for more. Adam grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes, kneading the skin in his palm as it flushes from pale, pasty white to red. He wants that color deepened, he wants Tommy to fucking _feel it_ tomorrow.

Tommy squirms under him, groaning and spreading his arms wider to balance, to push back into Adam’s hands. He’s making pained noises in the back of his throat, and still he wants more.

“Please,” he begs. “I need it, Adam, I need more. I need--”

“More?” Adam growls, kneeling down to lean close to Tommy’s ear. “It doesn’t fucking hurt enough yet? You still want more?”

“Please, Adam,” Tommy says roughly. “I need it to hurt more, please. I wanna be better, I need more. I need it.”

Adam stands and slides his belt out of his jeans, then shucks them and his boots before pushing down on the middle of Tommy’s back with his foot. “Hold the fuck still,” he orders, pulling the belt tight between his hands. He doubles it back and holds the tail with the buckle, getting a feel for the weight of it. It’s a sturdy belt, thick and smooth and genuine leather, and Adam slaps it against his own thigh lightly. He likes the sound it makes, imagines it magnified, sharper and louder against Tommy’s skin.

He catches Tommy looking up at him with wide eyes, cheek pressed to the floor. “Please,” he gasps. “ _Please_.”

Adam doesn’t make him wait. He swings the belt down on Tommy’s ass and the sound rings out and seems to echo in the quiet room. Tommy doesn’t make any noise, doesn’t even move for a long few seconds, and then his whole body shudders and he rubs his face against the floor with a weak sob. Adam flicks the belt back and sets it in motion again, bringing it down this time against the crease between Tommy’s ass and thighs, and the two welts, already raised and pink, side by side on Tommy’s pale skin, span his entire ass. He slaps the belt down on Tommy’s thighs next, then back up across his ass, then up higher, at an angle, so the end reaches the middle of Tommy’s back. The sounds Tommy’s making are intoxicating, and he’s writhing against the floor like he just can’t keep still.

“Don’t make me fucking tie you up,” Adam mutters, catching Tommy’s arm beneath his foot. He holds Tommy still for the next hit, then decides he likes Tommy squirming more, likes seeing the reaction when it finally makes its way through to Tommy’s brain. He ignores whatever words Tommy’s mumbling; Adam can hardly understand him, his voice is so thick and broken.

Adam lets the belt fall open in his hands, long enough that the tail drags across the floor as he holds it closer to Tommy’s body. It’ll be harder to control this way, but the tapered end will leave such beautiful marks, so sharp and thin, and Adam can’t resist. He lets the end of the belt tap Tommy’s ribs, lets it slither up and over his arm, then Adam yanks it back and swirls it around and it arcs through the air and comes down right between Tommy’s shoulders, catching the bottom of one shoulder blade. Tommy spasms, crying out sharply, and slaps a hand flat on the floor. Adam glances down at his face, flushed red and tear-stained and sees Tommy grit out, “Yes, fuck. Yes.”

Adam huffs out a laugh and starts moving faster, laying marks steadily across Tommy’s ass, the backs of his thighs, and up to his shoulder blades. Tommy’s pale skin turns pink under his gaze, then red, then dark and bruised on the meatiest part of his ass. Adam kind of wants to break the skin there, make him bleed. He’s so close. He drops to his knees and takes Tommy’s ass in his hand, squeezing firmly, and it’s so _hot_ , burning beneath his palm.

Tommy throws his head back as far as he can, his hair flying, and moans, “Fuck,” long and drawn out. He pushes his ass back against Adam’s hands, arching his back and stretching his neck, and Adam can’t even _breathe_ looking at him like that, so wanton, so open. A quick image flashes into his head: Tommy when Adam had first met him, so nervous he almost dropped his guitar, eyes downcast, voice a withdrawn mumble. Even then, he was beautiful, but Adam never could have imagined him like this, spread out naked and hard for him, wearing Adam’s marks with a blissed-out expression on his face. It’s an image that belongs in a fantasy, a fever-dream -- too perfect for reality.

Adam presses Tommy’s ass down so he’s flat on the floor again. Then he moves to hover over Tommy and slowly lowers his body down to lay on top of him, his mouth brushing Tommy’s ear, his chest against Tommy’s raw, red back, his soft cock pressing into the crack of Tommy’s ass. It hurts, it _has_ to hurt -- he’s heavy, and he doesn’t brace his weight on his hands, makes Tommy take it all -- but Tommy just moans again, and Adam can’t see his face but he sounds like he’s smiling, his voice breathy and high and light like Adam hasn’t heard it in weeks.

“I’ve got you, baby. Right here. Feel me now, don’t you?”

Tommy speaks right into the floor, but Adam’s close enough to make out the words anyway. “ _Yes_ , oh god, Adam, feel you so much. I...I want, I...”

His voice trails off, as if he’s forgotten the words, and Adam grins wolfishly. He likes Tommy out of his head like this, so overcome he can’t even think. “I know what you want, and I think you deserve it now. Don’t you think so?”

“I--”

Adam cuts him off, hissing right in his ear. “It doesn’t matter what you think. I’m gonna make you come on my fingers, come all over my floor, and you’re going to lay there and take it. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it, taking what I give you.”

It should be a question, but it isn’t. Adam says it like a fact, and it rings a little too true in his own ears, uncomfortably true. But he’s made Tommy a promise, and he’s gonna follow through, give him the release he so desperately needs. He slides off Tommy’s body, just a little, their bodies still impossibly close, and reaches up to grab lube out of his nightstand drawer. He takes his time slicking up his fingers, coating them thickly, making sure Tommy can hear the squelching, wet sound of it. Tommy’s squirming against him again, and Adam doesn’t try to stop him. Instead, he reaches down, spreads Tommy’s cheeks with his clean hand, and presses two lubed fingers into Tommy at once in a slow, steady slide. It’s more than Adam’s ever given him without a slow stretch first, but Tommy can take it, he’s a long way from virginal now. He opens up beautifully around Adam’s fingers, and his whole body goes still, everything in him focused on the feel of Adam penetrating him.

“That’s right, Tommy, fuck, you take it so good, like you were made for it, fucking love the way you feel...” Adam murmurs, not really paying attention, just letting his mouth run. He crooks his fingers just _so_ , and grins when Tommy cries out again, loud and sudden, thrusting his hips down into the floor. He scissors his fingers just a little, just enough to be able to pull back and come at Tommy again with three, tucked together tightly, forcing him open for Adam’s hand. Part of him wishes he could get hard again, because fucking Tommy like this, grinding down into the hot welts on his ass -- oh fuck, he wants that. But right now, this is good, this is amazing. He can _feel_ Tommy so much better with his fingers, every twitch of muscles, every time he clenches down, every shudder of pleasure. It’s like having Tommy literally in the palm of his hand, like if he could just move his fingers in the right way, he could have Tommy doing anything, saying anything.

“You wanna come, don’t you, baby? So close, aren’t you? Ask me for it. Ask me to let you come.” Tommy whines and presses his face into the floor, and Adam fucks back into him, hard, forcing his head back up. “That’s not asking. You don’t get to come until you can ask for it. Now, what do you say?”

Tommy heaves a shuddering breath and blurts out, “Please Adam can I come, please, please?”

Adam hums, pleased, but he he shakes his head. “No, not yet. I think you can take one more, can’t you? One more finger first.”

For a second, Adam’s not sure he’s going to be able to do it, Tommy’s body not quite open enough to let him do what he wants. But he keeps pushing, a steady press, and whispers to Tommy to bear down, and the slide is easy when it finally happens. Tommy’s gasping for air, literally _gasping_ , holding each breath for a tense split-second before letting it out again. Adam doesn’t pull his fingers out again, just leaves Tommy stuffed full, making minute movements with his fingertips to stroke Tommy from the inside. It’s fucking intoxicating, having almost his whole _hand_ pressed inside the tight heat of Tommy’s body, and as soon as he thinks it he has to say it, spilling off his tongue like a secret, like a confession.

“One of these days, gonna spend hours just stretching you open for me, baby, so fucking slick, gonna make you take my whole hand, my whole fist inside you. You want that, don’t you, want me filling you up like that, deeper than you’ve ever had, til there’s no room left. Think you could take that for me?” He punctuates the question with a hard bite to Tommy’s neck, digging his teeth in just as he flexes his fingers again, and Tommy’s crying now, _sobbing_ , but he nods, and his mouth makes the shapes of words, though no sound comes out.

Tommy’s so close Adam can _feel_ it, clenching around his fingers, movements going quick and erratic. Adam could reach his cock, easy, stroke him off in about two seconds flat, but something about making Tommy come untouched makes his breath catch and something in his chest flare hot. He goes for Tommy’s neck instead, wraps long fingers around Tommy’s throat and _squeezes_ , so hard Tommy can’t breathe at all. Then he whispers in Tommy’s ear, voice a low, harsh growl. “Come for me.”

And Tommy does, held fast between Adam’s hands, shaking hard as he loses it all over Adam’s floor. Adam can feel him trying to cry out, but he has no breath to make a sound, and Adam doesn’t let go. He squeezes tight with one hand, presses deep with the other, until Tommy’s whole body goes lax, falling bonelessly onto the floor and letting his head loll, eyes closed, panting for breath as soon as Adam releases him.

Adam shifts his weight onto his knees, then pushes up to his feet and stumbles back a few steps. Tommy stays on the floor on his stomach, his back rising and falling with his deep, harsh breaths. He hasn’t moved at all, not even to roll out of the mess of come underneath him. He’s all flushed and marked, and his face is completely relaxed, still and blank, eyes closed. He almost looks like he’s sleeping.

“Tommy,” Adam says. “Let’s get in bed.”

Tommy makes a muffled, pained noise with his mouth still pressed against the floor and Adam softens his voice as he bends to touch Tommy’s shoulder.

“Tommy,” he says again. Tommy doesn’t even move, doesn’t turn to look at him or anything. “Baby.” Adam drops one knee and pulls Tommy around, rolling him over onto his back, with Adam’s arm caught beneath him. “Baby, hold onto me,” Adam says, and lifts Tommy to get him up onto the bed. Tommy puts one arm around Adam’s neck, but he’s not holding himself at all. Adam carries him to the bed and sets him down carefully, and it must hurt his back but Tommy doesn’t protest. Adam gives him a cursory clean-up with a tissue and heads for the bathroom to wash his hands.

The bottle in the sink startles him -- it feels so long ago, now, that he came home and found Tommy asleep. Sex with Tommy is like that, he thinks, overwhelming in a way it hasn’t been with other people. It’s like he forgets himself, forgets about time passing and the world outside. Forgets about empty bottles of Jack Daniels in the bathroom sink.

He shakes his head and sets the bottle in the trash. Then he runs his hands under the hottest water he can stand, letting the burn bring him back to himself a little. He looks out at Tommy and thinks about the conversation they didn’t have. That they still need to have, now. But tonight is a lost cause -- Tommy is out of it, as out of it as Adam’s ever seen him. More. No way they can talk about anything now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

Except--fuck, he’s busy all day tomorrow, and there’s no way Tommy will be up to a conversation in the morning before Adam leaves. Adam’ll be lucky if Tommy even wakes up before he leaves. The last thing he wants to do is leave Tommy alone, but this show isn’t something he can blow off because his boyfriend’s not feeling well.

Tommy makes a soft noise from the bed, and Adam immediately abandons his train of thought to rush back and slide them both under the covers. Tomorrow can wait. Right now, he needs Tommy in his arms, warm and safe and _with him._ He stretches out on his side and rests his hand on Tommy’s chest, to feel his heart beating under his palm. Tommy’s eyelashes flutter, and he shifts one arm over to touch Adam, and Adam scoots closer so he can reach. Tommy sighs happily, a smile flickering over his lips, and Adam slides his hand up to trace over the light bruising around Tommy’s throat. The skin is warm under his fingertips, and he can feel Tommy’s pulse, the throb of blood. He fits his hand gently into the bruises and closes his eyes, losing himself in the steady rhythm, slipping easily into sleep.

*

Tommy wakes up to Adam’s fingers brushing his neck. It tickles a little, and he’s laughing as he opens his eyes. Adam’s hovering over him, head resting on one hand, staring down at him with wide blue eyes. He’s beautiful, and for the first time in a long time, Tommy doesn’t worry about whether he’s measuring up, whether he’s good enough. He feels light and his head feels clear, and though his body aches -- especially his back, all the way down over his ass and thighs, _fuck_ \-- but it’s a good ache, bracing, like the first really cold day of winter. He smiles and turns his face up to Adam’s for a kiss, and thinks that things might be okay after all.

Adam grants him the kiss, and he lays his hand gently over Tommy’s throat in a way that intensifies the throbbing ache of his bruises, but it somehow connects him to Adam too, like Adam’s reclaiming him. When Adam pulls away, Tommy leaves his eyes closed for a long moment, basking in the warmth of Adam’s touch.

When he opens his eyes, though, he sees Adam frowning at him. Tommy’s heart sinks, and he opens his mouth to ask, but Adam cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

“What? What for?”

“I can’t stay with you today. I have... There’s somewhere I need to be.”

Tommy pulls his hand out from beneath the blanket and curls his fingers around Adam’s hip. “Now?” He doesn’t want Adam to leave. He really doesn’t want to be alone.

“I have...” Adam rolls over to glance at his phone. “Ten minutes. Maybe.”

Tommy feels the smile fade off his face, like the clearing of clouded breath on glass. Soon, no one will be able to tell it was there at all.

Adam moves closer and wraps Tommy up in his arms, whispering in his ear. “I wanted to take you with me, baby. Never want to leave you alone again. But I...you...you have all these...marks.”

Tommy kisses Adam’s neck and murmurs into his warm skin. “I don’t care who sees. I want them to know who I belong to.”

He hears the hiss as Adam sucks in a breath, feels the way Adam’s cock twitches at his words. But Adam just shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way, Tommy. They wouldn’t understand. People would think...I don’t know. Lots of things. But not the right ones. There’s... There’s too many cameras, baby. I don’t want to bring you into that right now, okay?”

“I don’t care about the cameras,” Tommy insists. He’s lying--he can’t stand the thought of being paraded out in front of so many people shouting at him, taking his picture, but Adam would make it better.

“Tommy, please just trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” He’s not even sure what he’s done to make Adam mad, but he wants to fix it. Needs to fix it, _now_ , before Adam leaves him again. He turns onto his side, ignoring the slices of pain cutting through his body, and rests his head on Adam’s arm. “I love you,” he whispers. “I trust you.”

Adam moves down and rests his head on the pillow, until he’s on a level with Tommy, staring directly into his eyes. “I know. I know you do, baby.” He reaches out and runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair, watching the strands fall one by one. Then he meets Tommy’s eyes again. “And now I need you to do something for me. I need you to prove that I can trust you, too.”

Tommy wants to nod, wants to promise Adam _anything_ \-- but Adam’s face is deadly serious, and Tommy knows that this isn’t a small request. This is important. This is the _most_ important. He licks his lips. “What is it?”

“I want you to promise me that you’re not going to drink today.” Tommy opens his mouth to respond, though he doesn’t know what to say. Adam’s fingers come to rest on his lips before he can decide on something. “Just listen to me for a minute, okay? I know it seems stupid and extreme and I don’t know, too much maybe, but...I need you to do this for me. I’m gonna be worrying about you all day otherwise. And maybe that’s my problem, but I just...I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Ever.”

“It won’t, not as long as you’re here,” Tommy replies, but Adam’s frown deepens and he knows he’s said the wrong thing. “I mean, it won’t. I promise. I won’t.”

Adam flashes him a smile and leans down to give Tommy a quick peck on the lips. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you.”

“I promise.”

Adam touches Tommy’s cheek, and his fingers linger there for a long moment before Adam pulls them away. Then he rolls out of bed and Tommy watches him wander around the room, into the closet to put together an outfit, to the dresser to find the perfect necklaces and rings. Adam leaves the door open when he goes into the bathroom, so he can look over at Tommy while he’s brushing his teeth and doing his hair, and when he finally comes out, dressed to the nines and gorgeously made up, he sits on the bed beside Tommy and pets his hair.

“You really have to go?”

“I really do,” Adam says sadly. “But I’ll be back right after, okay? Are you gonna wait for me?”

“I’ll wait right here.”

Adam kisses him one more time. “I’ll see you tonight, baby.”

Then he stands and turns and walks out the door, and though Tommy watches him the whole way, he doesn’t look back.

Tommy stays in bed for a long time, breathing in Adam’s scent and clinging to the warmth he’s left behind. For a while, he tries to go back to sleep, but he’s been sleeping on and off for about fifteen hours now, and for once, he actually feels completely rested. He groans and rolls his head back on the pillow at the thought of having to get up -- but the motion makes his neck twinge with fresh pain, and suddenly he remembers what Adam had said, about the _marks_. They must be pretty bad if even Adam couldn’t find a way to cover them up, with all the makeup and scarves and accessories at his disposal. Tommy glances toward the bathroom mirror. Now he’s curious.

He forces himself out of bed. Once he’s upright, the pain washes through him, and he thinks that if it hurts this bad, there _must_ be marks. Lots of marks. He shuffles over to the bathroom door and clutches the door frame, almost too scared to take the last step onto the tile. He touches his throat, pushes into the dull, throbbing bruise until it screams with pain. It focuses his mind, somehow, concentrating on the ache -- it makes him think of Adam and gives him the courage to step in front of the mirror.

The first thing he notices is his face. He doesn’t remember Adam hitting him that hard, but he must have -- there’s a dark spot right on the apple of his cheek, making his face look uneven and almost hollowed. He raises a hand to run his fingers over the mark, but in doing so, he turns his face up a bit, and when the light hits his throat, when he sees it for the first time, he forgets about everything else and just _stares._

He’s never had a bruise like this before. It covers his whole throat, from one side to the other, darker in some places and lighter in others but leaving no inch of skin pale and untouched. The mark is a purpled-black, almost shiny, and when he looks closer, the different shades are in horizontal stripes, just about the width of Adam’s fingers. There’s no mistaking where that bruise came from. It’s as obvious as if Adam had signed his name to it.

Slowly, the memory of Adam stroking his neck this morning floats back to him, and Tommy realizes that this is what he’d been looking at. The whole time, this is what had caught Adam’s attention so thoroughly. He wonders how long Adam had been staring, how long he’d been touching the damaged skin with light fingertips before Tommy woke up. And he wonders how looking at the mark he’d left made Adam feel. Was he proud? Scared to have done it? Wishing he could make it darker, do it again? Tommy runs his hand over his throat and takes a deep breath, feels the muscles expand to let the air through. Maybe he’ll ask, when Adam comes home. If he remembers.

Tommy continues surveying his body, taking in the reddish marks on his arms and chest. He turns to face the full length mirror and sees dark bruises on his kneecaps from where he hit the floor. Then he twists his torso, slowly, and gasps when he sees the long, thick welts crisscrossing his back. Tommy turns completely and looks over his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain as he tracks the belt marks all the way down over his ass and the backs of his thighs. He reaches down and traces one with his finger, hissing with the sting.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, looking, but it’s long enough to get cold, goosebumps rising in between the welts and a shiver running down his spine. Five minutes later, he’s letting himself sink into a tub of steaming hot bathwater, closing his eyes and almost moaning at the delicious heat. The water stings his hurt places at first, but soon enough his body adjusts, and after that it’s just relaxing. He’s halfway through washing his hair when he suddenly flashes back to yesterday. He’d been laying in the tub at some point, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t remember why. The memory makes his skin crawl, and he pushes it away, closing his eyes and lowering his head under the water level, down to where everything is warm and close and muffled, and the world sounds very far away.

He stays under the water until his lungs are burning, and he tries to hold out for longer, but without Adam, it just isn’t the same. He thrashes and twists and breaks the surface gasping, sucking in a breath of air so deep and so fast it makes his throat hurt. Sitting up in the tub makes the welts on his ass ache, and though he doesn’t want to leave the hot water, he can’t stand to be in this bathroom any longer.

He towels himself off as gently as he can, wincing at how rough the terrycloth feels against his abraded skin. Then he pulls Adam’s big, oversized bathrobe off the back of the door and wraps himself up in it. It’s roomy on Adam and huge on him, almost dragging the floor, but Tommy smiles as soon as he’s got it on. He thinks he might stay in it all day, not even get dressed, and when Adam comes home he’ll just turn around and let it slip to the floor, let Adam see the marks he’s left. He thinks about going downstairs to watch a movie, bide his time in the living room, but then he remembers his promise. He’s just not sure if he can resist a drink if he’s down there with the liquor cabinet. So instead, he goes back to bed, stretching out on his stomach with just the robe covering him. He slips into a doze, replaying last night in his mind, and he doesn’t know how much time has passed, how long he’s been _alone_ , when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

It’s Isaac. Tommy suddenly flashes back to being in that bathroom with Isaac, Isaac pouring the meager remnants of his bottle down the sink. He almost drops the phone.

 _Feeling better?_ Tommy reads the tiny letters and winces as a pang of guilt runs through him. He had completely forgotten about Isaac last night, after Isaac had taken such good care of him. He should have called. Texted, at least. Something.

He taps out _yes. thanks man._ and Isaac’s reply is immediate.

 _Sutan’s coming over to watch the awards tonight. Come with._

Oh. So that’s what Isaac’s after. Tommy isn’t really up to leaving the house, and besides, Adam specifically told him that he couldn’t be seen in public. Adam doesn’t want questions, and as much as it hurts to be forced to hide this part of their relationship, Tommy understands. The fans, the media, the paparazzi... they’d take it the wrong way. They’d ask questions that pry and accuse and Tommy doesn’t want Adam to have to deal with that. Adam protects him, so he’ll protect Adam by doing his part and staying out of view. He can stay home. He _likes_ staying home.

 _can’t_ , he writes. _still kinda sick._ He expects his phone to buzz again, expects another text to pop up, but a few seconds later, Isaac calls him.

“Tommy, come hang out with us. It’s not good for you to stay cooped up in that house all the time,” he says without even waiting for a hello. “We’re gonna have dinner and watch the show and see your man present his award, and then you can go home, okay?”

Tommy hesitates. “Dude, I really would, but I’m not up to coming out right now. I’m fine though, so just...”

“Oh, you know what, we’ll come to you then! I’ll just text Sutan and we’ll...”

“Isaac, I don’t--”

“We don’t mind, Tommy, it’s cool. We’ll be there in an hour. Try not to fall asleep before you can let us in, okay? You know how loud Sutan can get -- wouldn’t want to have the neighbors calling the cops or anything. Remember that time in Boston?”

Despite himself, Tommy laughs. He does remember. “Fine, you fucker. If you wanted to watch on Adam’s giant TV, you could have just said so.”

He ends the call, and for a second, he feels strangely...normal. Like none of the past week...month... _year_ have even happened. Like they’re back on their first tour, when everything was new and exciting and fucking awesome, and the voice in the back of his head was quiet enough to ignore.

Then he remembers the marks. The giant bruise on his neck. The one on his cheek, the one that can’t have come from anything but a hand. His heart sinks, and he trudges back into the bathroom like a soldier approaching the battlefield. He doesn’t know how he’s going to cover this up, but he has to try. His friends are awesome, and he loves them, but they won’t understand.

Makeup only covers so much, and the bruise on his cheek is subdued but still painfully obvious even under layers of cover-up and foundation. The rest he covers up with long sleeves and jeans and one of Adam’s soft, cozy scarves tied around his neck, with the knot up high under his jaw. He even puts on a pair of Adam’s fingerless gloves, just to round out the outfit and make it look intentional. And lucky for him, his friends won’t blink twice at him bundling up in 78 degree weather.

The black clothes really should be paired with some black eyeliner, but Tommy thinks it will only draw more attention to the spot on his cheek. Like he was trying to hide it, distract from it. He looks in the mirror one last time and sighs at his reflection. It’s not the best, but it will have to do. Adam will be home soon, and then it won’t matter what he looks like, or what he’s wearing. He just has to get through this visit.

He goes downstairs and sits on the couch to wait, afraid that he’ll miss the knock if he stays up in the bedroom. Flipping channels is a pointless exercise, since nothing holds his attention, but he does it anyway just out of habit. He tries to keep his eyes on the screen and his brain empty, but every few minutes he finds his gaze creeping over toward the kitchen. There’s a cabinet in the kitchen full of glass bottles, and just one little sip from any one of them would make getting through tonight so much easier. He feels strung too tight, so tense he might break any second, and with Adam gone, it’s the only way he knows to loosen up. So easy, and no one would ever have to know....

He’s halfway to the kitchen when he stops in his tracks. He promised. He _promised_ Adam. And he doesn’t know what happens if he breaks that promise, but he knows what Adam’s face will look like. Disappointment and hurt and sadness. He can’t stand that look. He’d rather be awkward and uncomfortable and anxious all night. At least Isaac and Sutan will forgive him. He turns around and goes back to his spot on the sofa.

Half an hour later, when he repeats the whole ordeal practically step for step, it gets a little bit harder to turn back, and there’s a sinking feeling in his gut he can’t ignore. _Failing in slow motion_ , he thinks, and almost writes it down. It would be a good name for a song. Then he remembers he doesn’t do that anymore -- _can’t_ , can’t make anything sound right -- and forces himself back one more time, digging his nails into his palms. Adam will be back home in a matter of hours. He can make it that long. He can.

Maybe.

Another twenty minutes later, and he’s saved by the bell. He’s staring into the kitchen again, leaning against the doorframe, and the doorbell rings loudly, breaking through his thoughts. He takes the distraction with relief and goes to let in Isaac and Sutan. Both hug him, gently, and hang up their jackets by the door.

“Honey, I don’t know how you can stand covering up all the time,” Sutan says as he takes in Tommy’s outfit. Under his jacket is a tank top that dips most of the way down his chest, revealing a long stretch of tan, smooth skin. Tommy shrugs and fluffs his scarf a little, tucking his chin into the folds.

Isaac gives Tommy’s face a critical look, and Tommy knows he sees the bruise, but he doesn’t comment on it. Maybe he thinks Tommy fell out of bed in his drunken stupor yesterday. Tommy’s actually surprised he _didn’t_ fall out of bed.

“You feeling all right?” he asks pointedly. Sutan looks on, trying to be casual, but Tommy can tell he knows. Isaac probably told him everything.

Tommy sighs and nods. “I’m fine.”

“Even without Adam here?”

“I haven’t had a drink all day,” he tells them with a note of pride. “Adam made me promise. I told you. He helps me.”

Isaac gives him another slow look before finally relenting. “Okay...”

Sutan puts a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and Isaac glances up at him with a worried expression on his face. Sutan shakes his head minutely, and Tommy feels a hot, unfamiliar streak of anger flare up inside him. How stupid do they think he is, thinking he can’t tell exactly what they’re doing, what they’re here for?

“I’m fine,” he snaps, looking back and forth between them. Sutan swoops in and slings his arm around Tommy’s shoulders. It hurts, where his wrist touches the side of Tommy’s neck, but Tommy uses the pain to center himself, remind himself of his promises to Adam. _Don’t drink. Be good_. He can do that.

“I know you are, baby,” Sutan says brightly. “Now, take us to the TV.”

Tommy twists out from under Sutan’s arm and heads for the living room, but Isaac catches his elbow and pulls him close to whisper, “You really haven’t had a drink?”

“None.”

“How do you feel?”

Tommy grits his teeth. “Like shit. But I promised. So if you’re here to watch me, let’s just fucking do it, all right?”

“We’re not here to watch you, Tommy,” Isaac says. “We’re here to keep you company. Distract you.”

“And we want to see Adam on the big screen,” Sutan adds.

Isaac lowers his voice, even though Sutan is obviously right there and still listening. “I know it’s hard for you when he’s not here.”

Tommy’s chest goes tight and his voice waves when he speaks, no matter how hard he tries to steady himself. “Isaac, I...I can’t talk about this right now. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

There’s a long pause, and Tommy closes his eyes and hopes that Isaac isn’t going to push him on this. His back hurts and he wants a drink and he doesn’t have a lot to push back with. It wouldn’t take much to break him.

He hears Isaac take a breath, but it’s Sutan who finally speaks. “Don’t force it,” he says quietly. “Let’s just watch the show, hang out, relax. It’ll be fine. Look, he’s fine. Stop worrying, just for today.”

A gentle hand touches his face. Tommy opens his eyes to see it’s Isaac’s, and he’s tracing his finger around the bruise with open curiosity and no small measure of worry.

“Fell out of bed,” Tommy mutters, lowering his gaze.

“Oh, baby,” Sutan says, pouting his lips. He kisses Tommy’s hair and pulls Isaac’s hand away. “He’s fine, Isaac. Come on.”

Isaac doesn’t look quite as convinced, but he sighs and leads the way into the living room. He sinks heavily into a corner of the couch, watching Tommy with tense eyes that make Tommy want to shrink away. Sutan sits on the other end of the sofa, clearing intending Tommy to sit between them, but the space looks too small, too closed in -- and under far too much scrutiny. He slides to the floor instead, still between them but separate, too, resting his back against the edge of the cushions. He hears Isaac start to protest behind him, hears Sutan shushing again, and wraps his arms around his knees, pulling himself into a tight ball. It’s so strange to have people here who aren’t Adam, voices that don’t belong.

They keep up a steady stream of chatter that Tommy can’t focus on: what Adam will wear, who will look the best on the red carpet, when Adam will present his award. Tommy hums along whenever Isaac directs a questions toward him. He doesn’t really want them here. He just wants to watch Adam on the TV, and wait for Adam to come home.

They sit through several minutes of annoying presenters before the stars arrive, and then Tommy can’t look away. He scans the crowd for any glimpse of Adam, waits with his hands clenched for Adam to make his appearance. Still, every so often, he finds his attention wavering, his eyes drawn toward the open doorway to the kitchen and the bottles beyond. But the others give him no chance to sneak away, even just for one tiny, fortifying sip, and he forces his gaze back to the TV screen, trying to ignore the cravings clawing at him from the dark corners of his mind.

*

Adam will never forget his first red carpet after Idol -- laughing nervously with the others in the car, staring out the windows at the sea of press with a mixture of fear and excitement, and more than anything the sense of _arrival_ when the limo had stopped and the driver had come around to open the door. Today, he doesn’t even bother to lift his head, staring down at the rough grey carpet on the limo floor and losing himself in his thoughts. Lights flash through the windows, sparkling in the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t look up. He’s seen it all before, and none of it compares to the images in his head: deadly dark bruises on pale skin, left behind by his fingers like so much ink, like a photograph developing. That’s what watching Tommy is like, these days -- like watching a blurry image come into focus, closer and closer to what it was always meant to be. Adam rubs his fingers into his eyes and wishes he knew what that is, where it will end. They’re heading somewhere. He wonders if he’ll know when they’ve arrived. He wonders if he’ll know when to stop. It’s just so... addictive, Tommy’s skin coloring under his hands, like tangible proof of Adam’s claim on him.

It gives him a thrill to see it, all those marks so obvious and pronounced, but it’s already a problem. _Tonight_ , it’s a problem. Tommy’s supposed to be here, sitting beside him in this limo. Sitting in the audience, giving Adam someone to focus on, someone to talk to from the stage. But he can’t be seen, can’t show his face with those deep bruises. No one would understand, and the questions... Adam can’t answer any questions about their relationship, about Tommy, what Tommy needs. He doesn’t even know, himself. He’s just feeling it out. He can’t explain it to the world, the fans, the gossip blogs that take everything out of context. He just can’t.

He wishes, for a long, sick moment, that he hadn’t touched Tommy last night, that Tommy still looked as perfect and pretty as ever, as he always should. As much as he loves those marks, and as much as he loves that sharp thrill of _ownership_ , it’s not worth this. Not worth being alone right now. He needs Tommy with him, and he fucked it all up, made it impossible.

Adam slams his hand into the seat in frustration, and plays it off like he’s pushing himself to his feet once he notices the raised eyebrows in his direction. He flashes a smile and ignores the conversation around him as he slides out of the car and onto the carpet.

His team is there to meet him, as usual for a big event like this, and Adam lets them surround him like an honor guard, buffering him from the crowd just long enough to let him slip on a pair of oversized sunglasses. The photographers won’t like that, but he doesn’t know if he can make it without a little bit of extra distance today. Someone’s speaking quickly into his ear, probably reminding him of whatever talking points Chad wants him to stick to. He nods along and wonders how Tommy’s doing, whether he’s keeping his promise. If he’s sick, or hurting, or maybe already passed out drunk again. He reaches into his pocket and touches his phone, wanting to call. Text. _Something._

Just then, a frantic-looking woman holding a clipboard strides over to their group and begins waving them along toward the reaching hands and flashing lights, and Adam freezes his face into something camera-ready and utterly fake. He can’t afford to be real today.

“Adam! Adam! Adam!” Too many people to count, too many to even see through the camera flashes, all shouting his name, all desperate for a second of Adam’s attention. He dutifully turns his head in a slow circle, giving everyone their face shot, giving everyone their moment, and thankfully his handler urges him along. But after the photographers come the “journalists”, the people with microphones and video cameras and too much makeup. Adam grits his teeth and steps up to the first group, and four different microphones appear in front of his face.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” they ask. “Where’s Tommy? Why isn’t he with you? Why are you alone?”

Adam’s glad nobody took away his sunglasses, because he can’t help his guilty wince at Tommy’s name. Adam plasters on an apologetic smile. “Tommy couldn’t make it tonight. This isn’t really his scene, anyway. It’s just a work event for me, really, and I can’t give him the attention he deserves when I’m here.”

“Isn’t it true you’ve been fighting?” someone shouts. “Are you single now?”

“No,” Adam snaps. He forces himself to take a second, take a breath. “I don’t know where you heard that. We’re fine. He just couldn’t make it tonight.”

“What do you think about Jacob Cruz’s tell-all interview, Adam? What’s your response?”

Adam grinds his teeth again, parting his lips in a placating smile. He hopes it doesn’t look like he’s grimacing on camera. “I don’t have a response. I haven’t paid much attention to Jake lately. He’s entitled to his opinion, but I’ve got someone else to focus on now, and I don’t have time to confirm or deny whatever he’s said. I have a tour coming up, and I’ve been really busy with that.”

That opens up a new can of worms, and suddenly there are a million questions about where he’ll be touring, and who will accompany him, and if Tommy will still be playing in his band. “Things are still up in the air,” Adam tells them with a vague wave of his hand, “but that’s part of what we’re working out now. I’m really excited, though. It’ll be a great tour. I’m looking forward to it.”

His handler moves him forward to a new set of cameras and microphones, and he repeats his little speech about the tour and tries to deflect all the specific questions about it, but then he’s hit with a question he never saw coming. “Is it true you had an outburst on the set of your music video the other week? Our sources say you went crazy and took it out on your boyfriend.”

“Sources?” Adam splutters. “Source--What kind of source do you have? No. Nothing like that happened. I don’t know where these rumors come from. Tommy’s fine, he’s just not here tonight. Nothing happened on the set of that video except making a video, and it’ll be really great. I’m... I’m looking forward to that.”

“When will it premiere?”

Adam looks around, feeling lost in all the lights and cameras. “I... I don’t know. I...”

Someone touches his arm, wraps a hand tight around his elbow and pulls him along. Adam suddenly feels like he can’t breathe, and he wants to bend over, gulp in air like it’s water, but there are still cameras. There are still people everywhere. He wonders distantly if he’s still smiling. He can’t even control his face anymore. He hopes he is, hopes that fake smile is automatically frozen there on his face. He doesn’t feel like smiling at all.

He hardly listens to the rest of the questions, giving rote answers that probably don’t even make sense and eyeing the door to the hall, wishing he could just put his head down and push his way through the crowd and make his escape inside. Just as he’s breaking away from the last microphone, his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out quickly, almost dropping it in his haste. Maybe it’s Tommy. Maybe he’s sick or hurt or worse...and Adam knows that if that’s the case, he won’t even hesitate. He’ll run back through the crowd, through the razor-sharp attention of a thousand paps, cameras and contracts be damned. He’s let Tommy down enough for one lifetime.

It’s not from Tommy. The realization leaves Adam with a strange mix of relief and disappointment and puts him right back into the torturous _not knowing_ feeling he’s had ever since he left the house this morning. Instead, the text is from Chad, and Adam’s lips are curling in distaste even before he reads it.

 _GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER_ screams up at him from the tiny screen, and Adam glances at the people around him, annoyed. Chad’s people, every single one of them, eager to keep tabs on him for the boss. He misses his old team. He misses being _friends_ with his coworkers. He’s not sure when that ended, but it was so gradual he hadn’t even noticed. And now, though his team is bigger, he feels more alone, more _exposed_ than he’s ever been.

He pushes away from them, out of their clutches, and finds his own way inside. It’s dark--darker than the bright flashes and floodlights and California sun, anyway--and he stands as still as he can, waiting for his eyes and his body to adjust. His team catches up to him there, and Adam sighs, glad for at least few seconds of peace. He looks around, trying to find someone easy to mingle with, maybe Katy... He’s not sure what color her hair is now, but he scans the crowd for something bright and different. And he does catch a pair of eyes looking back his way, but it’s not Katy or Kelly or any other friendly face. It’s _Jake_ , standing by one of the bars with a drink in his hand and a twisted smile on his face.

“Fuck,” Adam mutters under his breath. Someone tries to move past him, pushing him towards Jake, but Adam digs his heels in. “No. No, not--”

“Adam!” Jake calls brightly, lifting his hand in a smug wave. His entire being radiates smugness. Or maybe evil, Adam’s not sure. He can’t think of why he liked the man, knowing now how vindictive and cutting he can be. Especially to someone like Tommy, who’s so sweet to everyone, and it’s not like Tommy ever did anything to Jake.

 _No_ , a voice in the back of Adam’s head whispers. _That was all you_. Adam takes a deep breath and takes off his sunglasses slowly, forcing his mind away from the catalogue of pain he’s caused every single one of his boyfriends. _Not my fault. Not just my fault_ , he thinks desperately.

“Jake,” he says, as calmly as he can. He pauses, not sure what Jake wants from him here, but Jake just stares up at him infuriatingly, waiting. “Uh...how have you been?”

Jake shrugs. “Oh, you know, shooting, same as ever. Just finished doing GQ yesterday, and would you believe it, there was a very large and very gorgeous prop from the spread that followed me home. He’s here somewhere, I’m sure.”

Adam doesn’t let his eyes follow Jake’s gesturing hand. He doesn’t have to care. Not anymore. “That’s great. Good for you,” he says flatly, moving to step around Jake and head for the bar himself. “I’m just gonna...”

“But wait, where’s your pretty little straight boy? Don’t tell me you’re keeping him chained up in the basement. You know there are laws against that sort of thing these days.”

“He’s not chained up any--” Adam bites out, but Jake just shakes his head dismissively.

“Oh that’s right, he couldn’t make it tonight. I wonder why.”

“News travels fast.”

“Why didn’t he come tonight, Adam?” Jake asks with exaggerated sympathy. “Were you really just afraid he’d get lonely? Is he that much of a social outcast?”

“He’s not--”

“From what I hear, you finally found the perfect pet -- someone to wait at the door and obey your every command. That’s fucked up, Adam. You two _deserve_ each other.”

Adam lets the anger spill out of him, just for a moment, and snaps, “At least I’ve found someone better than you.” He sees Jake roll his eyes and has to sigh--as comebacks go, that wasn’t his best--but he doesn’t want to stick around for more of this torture. He goes to the bar and gets himself a drink, and he ignores the instructions from his team about who to network with and where to stand and mingle. Adam stays exactly where he is, nodding and smiling at those who come up to say hello, until the show is about to start.

His seat is on the aisle, which he appreciates just because he won’t have to talk to anyone, and the seat beside him-- _Tommy’s_ seat--is filled by one of the nicely dressed, anonymous people from the back. As the lights dim, Adam touches his phone in his pocket, willing it to vibrate, but it stays quiet. He looks at the woman next to him and imagines Tommy’s face, his bright, blond hair. The bruises around his throat. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and clenches it into a fist, tight enough that his nails dig into his palm. He can’t think about that, not right now. He tries to tell himself it’s the guilt that’s distracting him, but as he shifts in his seat, he knows that’s not true. It’s not the guilt. It’s how much he enjoyed it, how much he wants to do it again. How just the thought of Tommy crying on his belly, back lashed red and still begging for more, is making his dick twitch in his dress pants. He closes his eyes tight and takes a deep breath. His head might be a mess, but he can hide it, fake a smile at least for tonight.

The images haven’t left his mind by the time Adam’s called backstage, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore them. Especially when he thinks of Tommy at home, waiting for him. Hopefully not drinking, all by himself, but... if he is, maybe Adam could use that, maybe he could punish Tommy for it. He’d told Tommy not to drink, and disobeying would require punishment.

“No,” he mutters to himself. It’s too soon. Tommy needs time to recover from last night. “Not yet,” he amends, drawing looks from the tech people standing near him. One, a young girl with a headset, approaches.

“You ready?” she asks.

Adam nods, but his head is lost in more images, technicolor-bright and clear as day -- those lash marks on Tommy’s back fading to pink, only for new marks to appear on top. Tears dripping from Tommy’s eyelashes as he sinks down on Adam’s cock, chokes on it. Tommy’s wrists cuffed to hold him still, up on the bed so Adam has better leverage with his belt. He suddenly feels a hand at his back and he stumbles forward a few steps, and then a bright spotlight flashes on...and he’s out in front of a concert hall full of people and live television cameras.

It takes him a few seconds of long, uncomfortable silence to find the teleprompter amidst all the lights and cameras. He sees his name there, and he stares at it as he takes a deep breath, something he should’ve done before walking out on stage, where everyone can see him.

“This next award...” he says, and trails off as the teleprompter starts scrolling. He loses his place and it stops, scrolls back. Starts over. “This next award celebrates achievement in... in fashion, and...” The words move too fast and Adam loses his place again. His mouth feels so dry. He looks through the audience, at the place Tommy should be sitting, but of course Tommy isn’t there, can’t meet his eyes and give him encouragement. Tommy’s at home, probably already passed-out drunk on the couch, covered in Adam’s marks.

He can’t focus. He can’t think. The award... He can’t even remember the woman’s name, or what she did that was so fucking great that Adam has to stand here and hand her a statue. He looks down at his feet. Everything would be fine if he had a podium, notes to read from. He can’t keep up with the stupid teleprompter, even though now it’s waiting for him. The letters are still, but it almost looks like they’re quivering, ready to spring into motion the second he speaks.

“The award,” Adam says again. He coughs, and it echoes too loudly through the microphone. “Um...”

Suddenly a voice fills the hall, played out over the speakers. “And the special achievement in costume design award goes to Wendy Bakersfield,” a man exclaims as the music swells. A woman comes to the front of the stage and walks up the steps with her dress hitched up in her hand. Someone nudges Adam’s arm and hands him the gold statue, and Adam remembers to kiss Wendy’s cheek as she accepts it from him. He steps back, giving her room at the microphone, and keeps walking until he’s out of the harsh spotlight, back in the bustling darkness behind the curtain.

Everyone is staring. Adam grits his teeth and walks through the whispering crowd, straight to the bar again. He feels numb, surreal, like he’s dreaming. He’s never frozen up like that before, not even when he was five years old, singing in his first school concert. He’s spent half his life in front of an audience since then, as comfortable on stage as he is in his own living room. The bartender hands over a double shot, even though Adam’s only ordered a single, and Adam gives him a nods and throws it back quickly, thoughtlessly. It takes everything he has to gently set the glass back down on the bar. He wants to throw it to the ground, hear the satisfying shatter. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Jake, still smirking like the fucking Cheshire cat, and instantly he changes his mind. He wants to hurl the glass right at Jake’s cruel, beautiful face. His fingers curl around the smooth, cool surface, not really considering it, just entertaining the thought in an attempt to not think about anything else. And then a new voice sounds behind him, one that he’s heard over the phone on more calls than he can count, but in person only a half-dozen times. Chad.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, his voice deep and loud and angry.

“I can’t do this right now,” Adam mutters. He looks back towards the bartender, but he’s serving someone else. Adam grits his teeth and doesn’t turn around to face Chad.

“Well, too bad for you, pretty boy, this is your job. You can’t flake like this, and you _especially_ can’t go out there in front of millions of people and fuck up the lines that are _printed out right in front of you_. Christ, I can hear the bits on the late-night talkers already.”

Adam lets his head loll back and stares up at the ceiling, hating everything. Chad. The sour aftertaste of alcohol on his tongue. The weird crack in the ceiling that looks like an L. “So do your job and fix it, then. Isn’t that what you’re here to do, anyway? Clean up after my messes?”

“This ain’t your first rodeo. You shouldn’t be making messes,” Chad hisses. He grabs Adam’s arm and shakes him. “Look at me, goddammit.”

Adam turns around and looks Chad up and down quickly. Tall. Broad. And he looks like _money_ \-- his shoes, his suit, his fucking haircut. He’s glaring down his nose at Adam, a sneer on his lips. Adam shakes his head. “I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got other shit on my mind, you know? My life doesn’t revolve around some stupid award show.”

“And you think I don’t have other shit to do? I’ve got the prettiest little piece of ass waiting for me outside, fresh outta the Bible belt. Told her I was gonna get her a gig singing with Christina. You think I wanted to come in here and deal with _you_ instead?” Chad snorts loudly and leans in even closer. “I’m getting tired of your excuses. You hired me for a reason, and that was to push you. Take you to the next level. If you’re not gonna listen to me, then you better not expect me to pull any more strings for you.”

Adam scoffs and takes a step back, putting some space between him and Chad’s awful cologne. “You want me to believe you’ve been pulling strings for me? I don’t need your fucking strings, okay, I can handle myself.” He points at himself, jabs his finger into his own chest. “I’m the fucking _name_ , I’m the one everyone knows. I don’t need your fucking advice.”

There are definitely people watching, now, but Adam doesn’t care. He spins on his heel and slaps his hand down on the bar to jolt the bartender out of his daze. The guy starts making him a drink. He’s the only one in the vicinity doing something _normal_. Adam looks around and sees the whispers trickling through the crowd. This is how rumors spread. This is how careers die. And Adam doesn’t give a shit right now.

“You think you could do this without me?” Chad asks smoothly. “You think you could be where you are, without me running the show? You’re in way over your head, boy. Just try and go it on your own. It’s sink or swim, now. And if you think for one second that someone like _you_ can keep afloat in this business without someone like _me_ , I won’t even bother telling you how wrong you are. You’ll see that for yourself in about five minutes, when all the blogs report on the stunt you pulled tonight. Try recovering from that on your own, you fucking faggot.”

Adam doesn’t even think, everything lost in a sudden haze of red. His fist is halfway to Chad’s face before security grabs him, a huge guy dressed in black capturing his arms and dragging him backward, out of reach of anyone else. Adam thrashes and kicks but the guy’s arms around him are like a vise, holding him firm.

“Why don’t we take a walk outside,” the guy says quietly.

“I’m fine,” Adam growls, pushing away.

“Sir, I think--”

“I’m fine, I’m leaving,” he says, then turns to Chad, and to Jake to shout, “I’m leaving! Happy now, motherfuckers?”

The security guy walks him all the way back to the valet booth, a constant two steps behind him to make sure he doesn’t backtrack and rip Chad’s face off or what the fuck ever. Adam’s thinking about it, about how it would feel to break Chad’s nose, or scratch up Jake’s perfect cheekbones, like he did to Tommy’s... Fuck, he can’t go home like this. He’s not drunk yet, not really, but he wants to be-- _needs_ to be, and he can’t do that with Tommy. Fucking Tommy, who’ll just cling and beg and cry. Adam can’t fucking deal with that right now. Tommy has a way of making him _do_ things, sharp, dangerous things that he regrets later, and that’s at the best of times. Adam shudders at the thought of what he might do feeling like _this._ No, home is out of the question, and there’s no way he’s staying here. For a fleeting second, he thinks of Brad...and then he remembers the look on Brad’s face the last time they’d spoken, the coldness of his voice, and he knows that he only has one option left.

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through the recent texts. He’s been getting invites to afterparties all day long, and even though the show’s not over yet, he knows half of them will be going strong already.

A town car finally pulls up and the valet opens the door to the backseat. Adam gives the security guy a little wave of his fingers and climbs in, stuffing his phone back into the pocket.

“Where to, sir?”

“GQ afterparty,” Adam tells him. “Or anywhere else that serves alcohol and beautiful people.”

He sits back against the leather as the car starts to move, sighing heavily and trying not to think. Fuck it. Fuck it all. He’s gonna erase this whole mess of a night, scrub his mind clean of all the bruises and smug grins that haunt him. Anything’s better than that. _Anything_. Tommy will just have to wait.

*

Tommy doesn’t really watch the show. He tries for a few minutes, tries to care about the clothes and the special guests and the overly happy hosts, but it’s no use. He feels so... _separate_ from all of that. From Adam. Even from Sutan and Isaac, sitting so close he could reach out and touch them. It’s a divide that’s always been there, maybe, ever since he can remember, but today it feels like a gaping abyss, dark and empty and impossible to cross. He huddles in on himself instead and stares at the carpet, picking at imperfections in the fibers with one bitten-ragged nail and trying not to think about how much he needs a fucking drink.

After a while, Tommy hears Adam’s name and he looks back up at the TV, shocked out of his daze. He knows what Adam looks like, obviously. He saw Adam get dressed earlier. But now, on screen, on that stage, he looks like some untouchable person, out of Tommy’s reach, out of his league. Tommy stares, watches Adam walk out to the microphone and take a deep breath. Something’s not right.

“Look, look, here he goes,” Sutan whispers loudly, touching Tommy’s shoulder like he thinks Tommy’s not paying attention. Tommy tries not to flinch, just grits his teeth through the spark of pain, and ignores Isaac and Sutan’s excited noises behind him.

Adam starts to speak, his voice sounding strange and unfamiliar through the screen, but he immediately stumbles over his words and has to start again. Sutan catches his breath, and Isaac leans forward, and Tommy can’t help himself -- he’s on his knees and crawling closer to the TV before he even realizes he’s doing it, eyes fixated on Adam.

Adam’s eyes scan the crowd, jumping from section to section, and Tommy can’t help but wish Adam could see him. He wishes he could be there, so Adam could see him and see that Tommy’s confident in him. Tommy trusts him. But Adam stumbles again and again, coughs loudly right into the microphone, and Tommy reaches up, stopping just short of laying his hand on the TV screen. Adam seems so far away. The announcer’s voice suddenly booms out, saying the lines meant for Adam, and Tommy’s heart leaps into his throat.

“No,” he whispers. “ _No_.” He watches Adam fade into the background, out of sight. Watches him disappear.

He can hear the others reacting behind him, Sutan’s solemn “Oh honey...” and Isaac’s “Fuck,” and he wonders if he’s supposed to say something too. He doesn’t know what. Even if Adam was here, or if Tommy was there with him, all he would want to do is wrap his arms around Adam and hug him tight, show him that it doesn’t matter, that Tommy doesn’t care and it doesn’t change anything. And then his train of thought is interrupted by another voice, loud this time, loud and shocked and angry.

“ _What the fuck is that?_ ”

Tommy twists around, wondering dazedly if he’ll find a spider or a mouse or something behind him, but all he sees is Isaac, leaning forward with his arm outstretched, pointing at Tommy.

“What?” Tommy asks, baffled. Sutan raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to reply, but Isaac cuts him off.

“What the fuck happened to your back, Tommy?” he asks, his voice tight and angry. “Let me see.”

Tommy sits his ass down on the floor, back to the TV, and pulls his knees up towards his chest. “Nothing. There’s nothing.”

“Tommy,” Sutan says calmly. “Don’t lie to us, baby. It’s all right. You can tell us anything.”

Sutan’s face is calm and patient, and Tommy believes him. He really could tell Sutan anything and not have to worry about his reaction...if only he had the words. This thing, between Adam and him, it’s not something Tommy knows how to _think_ about, much less talk about. He stares at Sutan and wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to explain.

Isaac doesn’t give him a chance. “I knew it. I told you. He was acting like this last time, too, only drunk.” He glances up at Sutan. “Do you believe me now?”

“This isn’t--” Sutan begins, shaking his head. He looks from Isaac to Tommy and softens his expression. “Tommy, are you and Adam doing all right?”

“Of course we’re--”

“Does that look all right to you?” Isaac asks. “Tommy, let me see. Come on, take off your shirt.”

“No!” Tommy pulls his legs in tighter, wraps his arms around them. Adam didn’t want anyone to see. He can’t show them.

Isaac stands up and takes a step toward Tommy, brow wrinkling when Tommy shrinks back. He extends his hand. “Come on, Tommy. Get up. Take off your shirt.”

“No, I--”

But then Isaac reaches down and grabs Tommy’s arm to pull him to his feet. Before Tommy even has his balance, Isaac catches the hem of Tommy’s shirt and tugs it up to the middle of his chest.

“No!” Tommy shouts. “No, don’t!”

It’s too late. Isaac’s seen him, seen the marks wrapping around his back and licking his ribs, and judging by the sharp gasp from the couch, Sutan’s seen enough too. Isaac wrestles Tommy’s shirt off and the scarf gets tangled in it, pulling tight for a moment before slipping free and floating to the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Isaac breathes.

Tommy hunches in, crossing his arms low over his belly, hands clenched into fists. There’s nothing he can do to hide the deep bruises around his throat, and they’ve seen the welts on his back... it’s useless to try and cover them now. But at least they don’t have to see the ugly swell of his stomach. He can still hide that.

“That fucking bas--” Isaac starts, but Sutan throws out one commanding arm, cutting him off and standing up himself to approach Tommy slowly. Tommy knows Sutan’s looking into his eyes, but for a long time he can’t get himself to look back, can’t force his eyes to focus. When he finally manages it, Sutan’s pretty mouth is turned down at the corners, and his face is serious.

“Tommy, did Adam do this to you?” he asks, matter-of-factly, as if he’s asking about the weather or what brand of nail polish Tommy’s wearing today.

Tommy nods. This is easy. He can do this. Yes or no.

“Why?”

It’s such a tiny question, but it intimidates Tommy in a way the first one hadn’t. It doesn’t have an easy answer. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and his eyes start to unfocus again.

Sutan snaps his fingers in front of Tommy’s face and speaks again quickly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, baby, never mind that. Let me ask a different way. Did you _want_ him to do this? To hurt you?”

Tommy nods again, a little slower this time. Sutan seems to relax, but Isaac just growls and shakes and hisses, “This isn’t right. Look at him.” He thrusts his hand towards Tommy and stares, and he looks so _disappointed_ , and Tommy doesn’t know what he did wrong. What he can do to fix it. He just doesn’t _know_.

Sutan gives a little _tsk_ and shakes his head, looking toward Isaac. “Don’t preach to me, straight boy. Takes all kinds -- you should know that. Fucking irresponsible of Adam, leaving him down like this, though. _Alone_.”

Most of the words go through Tommy’s head like so much water, not catching on anything, but he feels like he wakes up a little at the mention of Adam, at the disapproving tone in Sutan’s voice when he mentions him. That’s not right at all. Adam hasn’t done anything wrong. _Nothing_.

“He’s not -- I’m fine! I don’t need a fucking, fucking _babysitter_.” Tommy’s voice is high in his own ears, panicky, and he can’t seem to make it calm down. “Just leave me alone. He’ll be back soon. I know he will. He promised. And I kept my promise, too. See? I’m being good. I’m...”

He lets his voice trail off as his brain finally catches up to the words spewing out of his mouth. They’re staring at him, both of them, concern in their eyes. He’s not helping. He’s fucking this up, like he fucks everything else up. And he needs a drink so bad his hands are shaking. He clenches his fingers into fists and swallows hard, looking down at the floor and away from their worried stares.

“Look at him,” Isaac says again, this time with his voice low, like Tommy can’t hear him even though he’s _right there_. “He’s not _healthy_. He can’t handle this. Fuck, Tommy, have you even eaten anything today?”

“Yes,” Tommy snaps. He’s not actually sure, but he must’ve eaten something yesterday. Before Adam came home. “And I can take it. You don’t know what I can take.”

“I know this is too fucking much!” Isaac says. “I know you love him, Tommy. I know you fucking worship him. And god knows I don’t care what kind of kinky sex you might get up to. But this is beyond that. This is _wrong._ ”

Sutan breaks in before Tommy can answer. “Baby, I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, but he might be right. Anything you do together should be making you feel better, not worse.”

“But he _does_ make me better!” Tommy cries. “When he’s gone, _that’s_ when it’s worse. All I want to do is hide.”

“And drink,” Isaac says, through gritted teeth.

“It’s bad, I know it’s bad, I know that now, and I haven’t--I’m fine, I haven’t done anything, I’ve been good. I’ve been good, Isaac, he made me better. He made me promise.”

“Tommy. I know you think it's the alcohol that's hurting you, but it's not. It's him,” Isaac says, gesturing wildly at Tommy and the kitchen and the front door. There’s a heavy pause left in the air after those words, and Tommy can’t breathe, can’t think. He scrambles for something to retaliate with, anything. Isaac’s wrong. He has to be.

“So now it’s not bad to drink?” Tommy asks. “Now it’s okay? Yesterday you...”

“It doesn’t matter what I did yesterday. It didn’t fucking help. It didn’t fix anything! I didn’t know _he_ was the problem.”

Sutan puts his hands out and speaks over both of them. “Okay, okay, calm down. Tommy, baby, just let us get you patched up a little. Then we can all just wait for Adam to get back. He’s got some questions to answer.”

Tommy blinks and sucks in a quick, cold breath. Then he narrows his eyes and says, “Adam doesn’t have to answer to _anybody._ ”

“He sure as hell has to answer to me,” Isaac says. “This is fucked up, Tommy.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Tommy shouts. “You don’t know us, you don’t know how this works. But it fucking works and it’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Tommy, calm--” Sutan says, reaching for him, but Tommy pushes past and storms into the kitchen.

Tommy rakes his hands through his hair roughly and shakes his head. Then he reaches out for the handle to the cabinet, the one hiding cool, clear bottles behind its wooden door. He could have done it. Alone, maybe he could have. But now... “I can’t,” he says, more to himself than to either of the others. “I _can’t._ ”

Isaac’s close on his heels, and he wraps his arms around Tommy’s torso, hauling him back and away from the neat row of bottles in the cabinet. He’s not really any bigger than Tommy, but he lifts Tommy off his feet and stumbles backward, and Tommy screams and kicks out at thin air, and they finally collapse on the floor in a heap.

Tommy scrambles off Isaac and pushes himself across the floor until his back slams painfully into one of the cabinets. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!”

“Guys,” Sutan says, loud and clear and breaking through the red haze in Tommy’s brain. “Adam’s not coming home. He was just spotted going into one of the afterparties.”

“What?” Isaac asks, panting and not taking his eyes off Tommy. “He can’t just--That fucking asshole, he can’t leave Tommy here like this to go _party_...”

“I know,” Sutan replies grimly. “I tried calling him but he didn’t answer.”

“Why wouldn’t he come home?” Tommy asks. He feels like he’s missing something, a vital piece of the puzzle, because nothing’s making sense. “He said he’d come home. He’s coming home, he’ll be here soon.”

Sutan’s still staring at his phone. “You stupid fucker,” he says under his breath. Then he dials and looks up as he puts the phone to his ear. “I’m going. Someone’s gotta bring him back here and make him face up to this...whatever it is.”

He turns and walks a few steps toward the door, muttering into the phone. Halfway there, he stops and turns suddenly, staring hard at Isaac. “Don’t you go anywhere. Stay with him. I’ll be back.”

Isaac laughs humorlessly. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

Sutan sighs and turns away again, leaving without another word. Tommy stares up at Isaac, who’s staring back, and for a moment all they can do is look at each other. There’s too much unsaid, unexplained, and Tommy doesn’t know how to make Isaac understand. Doesn’t know if he even _can_ understand.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Tommy tells him softly. “I know it’s not perfect, but... it’s all me. I’m... messed up. But he helps me. He...he does the best he can.”

Isaac raises his eyebrows. “Really? Does he, Tommy?”

Tommy buries his face in his hands. Hearing anyone talk about Adam this way would be hard, but Isaac is one of Tommy’s best friends. He _knows_ Adam. How could he think this way?

Isaac speaks again, voice softer, gentler. “I know you think he’s doing his best, Tommy. I know you think things are okay. But...relationships make people stupid sometimes, you know? And I’m sorry, man, but you’re being really fucking stupid right now if you can see that this isn’t right. It isn’t how things are supposed to be.”

“It’s not his fault!” Tommy protests. “He’s just busy, and that’s not his fault.”

“No. It’s not. But you didn’t always... _need_ him like this. You used to love having time by yourself. And that is his fault. He changed you. And not for the better.”

“He didn’t change me. This is who I am. This is who I’ve always been.”

Isaac throws his hands up, frustrated. “Fine, Tommy. Whatever. We can argue about this later. But right now, I really think you should come back home with me. Just until you feel better.”

“About what?”

Isaac gestures vaguely. “Your back, and your neck, and...fuck, Tommy, you’re so _thin._ ”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Tommy. If you could see yourself right now...come on. Pack a bag. I can’t let you do this to yourself any more.”

“I’m not leaving,” Tommy says bluntly. “Adam’s coming home soon. I’m supposed to wait for him.”

“Well, there’s been a change of plans. Sutan’s gonna find him and bring him back here, and we’re gonna _go_. We gotta get out of here, come on. Let’s get your stuff and go.”

“I can’t go with you. I’m waiting for Adam.”

Isaac throws his hands back into the air and finally grabs Tommy’s arm, shakes him a little. “He’s hurting you, Tommy. He’s... Tommy. _Tommy_ , look at yourself. He’s _beating_ you.”

“That’s not...”

“Tommy, this is abuse, this isn’t... This isn’t a game, okay? This isn’t _normal_.”

Tommy shakes his head and tries to pull away from Isaac’s grip. “Fuck you. He’s not fucking... whatever, he’s not doing that. I _love_ him.”

Isaac pauses, and for a moment, Tommy thinks that maybe he’s finally gotten through. But Isaac just pulls insistently at Tommy’s arm and says, “We’re done talking about this. I’m getting you out of here. Away from him.”

Tommy twists hard and wrenches his arm out of Isaac’s grip. “Fucking go then,” he hisses. “No one asked you to come.”

“I’m your friend, you asshole! No one had to.”

“Well no one asked you to be that either!” The second the words are out of his mouth, Tommy regrets them. They’re cruel, and they’re not even close to true, and Isaac doesn’t deserve them. But he doesn’t apologize, just folds his arms across his chest and looks away, pushing the guilt down.

“Tommy...”

“Just go.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I don’t want you here when he gets home.”

“And why is that, Tommy? Why are you protecting him? Because he’s _doing something wrong_.” Isaac gives him a pleading look. “Come on, Tommy, I’m just trying to help. Come with me.” He lifts his hand, and Tommy sees it like it’s in slow motion, grabbing for him. He gets out from between Isaac and the cabinet and crosses the kitchen, snatches one of the long, sharp knives out of the block by the stove, holds it out to fend Isaac off.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he hisses, waving the knife between them. Isaac’s jaw is hanging open, and he’s holding both hands in the air now to calm Tommy down, but it isn’t working. “I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

“Tommy, put the fucking knife down, Jesus Christ,” Isaac says carefully. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m... I’m...” But Tommy doesn’t even know. “Get the fuck out. Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you like this, Tommy, no fucking way.”

“Get out! This isn’t your fucking house. Get the fuck _out_!”

“Well, it’s not yours either!” Isaac screams at him. “It’s _his_ name on the lease. His money. His shit. And if you stay here much longer, that’s all you’re gonna be. Just something else he owns. He’s swallowing you up, Tommy. There’s not gonna be anything left of _you._ ” He takes a step forward, mouth set in an angry line. “You’re not gonna hurt me. Gimme the fucking knife.”

Tommy realizes he’s right, he can’t hurt Isaac...when Isaac takes another step forward. He’s reaching for the knife, about to take it out of Tommy’s hand, and Tommy can’t force himself to swing it, cut him, defend himself. Tommy backs up against the counter and holds out his left arm instead, lays the blade across his skin, digs the point in a little.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he says again, quiet this time, because Isaac’s stopped dead. “Get out and fucking _leave me alone_.”

“Don’t--”

“You think I won’t do it?” Tommy asks. “You said it yourself. I’ve got nothing left. You really think I won’t?”

“Tommy, just stop! Look, I’m not touching you. I’m not doing anything,” Isaac says, hands still up, voice tight and scared.

“You gonna fucking listen to me now?” Tommy presses the knife just a tiny bit more, just enough to break the skin. A tiny point of red wells up, bright against the paleness of his inner arm, and Isaac gasps.

“I’m listening, just _stop,_ oh my god...”

Tommy sucks in a shaking breath. He doesn’t know how he got here, how things got to this point. It’s like something else has been pulling him along, like he’s caught up in the current and can’t get free. All that’s left to do is give himself up to it.

“You’re gonna leave. Right now. Go home to Sophie. This is between me and Adam.”

“Okay, okay, fine, but...” Isaac stumbles over the threshold as Tommy herds him towards the door. “Tommy, wait. Please, don’t--Just don’t do anything, okay?”

“Go _home_ ,” Tommy says firmly.

“Promise me, Tommy. Fucking promise me you will put that knife down the second I leave. Swear to me.”

Tommy twists the tip of the knife, drawing a bright bead of blood that slides over his forearm. He grits his teeth and nods. “Go, now. Please.”

Isaac scrambles backward and through the front door and all the way down the front steps before slowing to a stop. “Put down the knife, Tommy,” he shouts. “I’m leaving, okay? Please, put it down. Adam and Sutan will be here soon, okay? Don’t do anything until they get here.”

“I...I...” Tommy stares at the blood on his arm, watches how it stains, how it drips. It doesn’t hurt. He’d thought it would hurt.

“Promise me, Tommy,” Isaac cries. “You wanna see Adam again, right? He’ll help you. Just wait for him, please.”

Tommy stares at him for a long moment. Isaac looks small now, surrounded by Adam’s neatly manicured front lawn, and the heavy gate at the end of the driveway. Isaac’s just as helpless as Tommy is, now. Tommy finally nods and says, “I promise,” because Isaac’s right. He needs to see Adam. And Adam will be home soon. He lets the hand with the knife fall away from his arm and slams the door, locks it, peeks through the window to see if Isaac will really leave.

He does, and he pulls out his phone on the way to his car, but after he pulls out of the driveway, no police cars or ambulances or fucking firetrucks appear, so Tommy holds him to his word. He lets out a sigh of relief and heads back to the kitchen, dropping the knife to the floor.

It’s so quiet. That’s the first thing he notices. It didn’t seem so quiet this morning, like something about the house has been changed by the fighting, the yelling. His arm is starting to throb a little now, and he reaches down to drag his fingers through the blood, painting it in thinning stripes over his skin. He wonders what Adam will do when he sees.

The bottles in the cabinet are taunting him, and he stares at them for a while, judging the amount in each bottle, if Adam would notice if he drank just a little from each. Or if one disappeared. The bottle of Jack looks new, unopened. Maybe Adam would forget he bought it, if Tommy hid it somewhere.

He reaches for the Jack, watches his hand move like some kind of out-of-body experience, but Adam’s voice rings clearly through his head. Tommy promised him. He grabs the cabinet door instead and slams it shut. He should go do something else. Distract himself. Pick up the guitar he hasn’t touched in way too long. Anything to help him be good.

Instead, he presses his palms to the smooth wood of the cabinet and stares at his hands. Takes a deep breath. Hopes that Adam is close. He’s still caught in the current, still drifting, and the edge is coming. Adam’s the only one that can keep him from falling over it.

*

The GQ afterparty is full of people Adam doesn’t know, the kind of people who generally want to know him, want to talk to him and be his friend, but he doesn’t have the patience for it tonight. And really, after the humiliation of his time onstage, he finds that not many people actually want to associate with him at all. It’s been a long time since the spotlight’s been off of him, and he’s horrified to find that he misses the constant attention. He misses the people fawning over him.

Adam makes the rounds, giving perfunctory greetings and not smiling for photos. Nobody expects him to smile, anyway. He’s looking for something, some _one_.

He looks around the main room, scanning faces. Most of them spark unwanted associations in his head -- impossibly gorgeous little models that remind him of Jake, darkly made-up eyes that bring to mind the bruises on Tommy’s skin. He shakes the haunting thoughts away and keeps looking. It’s been ages since he’s done this, probably since the club days with Brad, but he hasn’t forgotten the signs. A downturned head and constantly glancing eyes. A coat with pockets, or maybe a bag over one shoulder. Frequent touches with the surrounding people, handshakes and fist bumps, as if to remind the crowd of his presence. It doesn’t take Adam more than five minutes to find the right guy.

He comes away with his wallet a couple hundred dollars lighter and a plastic bag of white powder concealed in the curl of his hand. The good shit, the guy had said. The best. _Who the fuck knows_ , Adam thinks to himself. He doesn’t care, as long as it works. As long as it gets him up again, out of this fucking hole he’s dug for himself. Just for a few hours. Just for tonight.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, replaces it with the baggie, he sees a missed call from Sutan, and a text asking why he isn’t home.

 _Tommy’s at home_ , Adam thinks. Tommy, hurt and probably drunk, Tommy who watched him bomb at the award show, is waiting for him. Adam can’t face him right now. He’s got to burn off this anger, this humiliation first. His phone vibrates again, startling him. Sutan’s sent another text. _I’m coming to get you. Stay put._

“Hell fucking no,” Adam mutters, pocketing his phone again and making a beeline for the door. He doesn’t take a car this time, but hails a cab. None of the other afterparties interest him; he’s not in the mood to schmooze. He’s in the mood to lose himself in lights and music and drugs. He wants a fucking drink, too. Ten minutes later, he’s slipping into a dark club where there aren’t any paparazzi waiting for him. The music is so loud he can’t even hear himself think, and the flashing lights dazzle his eyes, and the people are a nameless, faceless mass. It looks like the perfect place for forgetting.

He moves deeper into the club, squeezing between bodies, until he finds a tiny, out-of-the-way bathroom to lock himself in. The music is muffled, here, and Adam takes a deep breath. It’s the first time he’s had a moment really alone all day. He turns around and leans back against the door, grateful for the separation. Maybe he’ll just stay here, locked away from the world, until the world decides to work itself out without him.

There’s a mirror directly across from him, his reflection staring back through water spots and smears of old lipstick. Beneath it is a sink and a tiny counter, enough space for what he needs, if only just barely. A mass of gold glitter is spilled across the surface and onto the floor below, and something about it bothers him, pricks at things he doesn’t want to be thinking about. He crosses the tiny room and brushes it off the counter with one sweep of his hand, pulling the bag out of his pocket and setting it by the sink instead. His phone comes out with it, and he sets that down as well. Then he stops. Stares.

He needed Tommy with him tonight. Then things wouldn’t have gone so horribly _wrong_. He picks up the phone and dials, expecting Tommy to pick up right away. But the phone rings out, and it clicks over to the automated recording, telling him to leave a message.

“Jesus fuck, Tommy,” Adam groans. “What the fuck? Answer your phone. What are you doing?” Tommy’s probably passed out by now. Adam looks at the screen of his phone; it’s kind of late already. “Tommy. Tommy, why aren’t you fucking _here_ ,” he asks, but that... That was his fault, he told Tommy to stay home. _He_ didn’t want anyone to see those bruises. Fuck, Tommy shouldn’t have pushed him like that. Adam never would’ve... If only Tommy hadn’t goaded him into it. Begged for more.

“I’m sorry, baby. I don’t...I don’t know what happened to us. It was good, right? It was... _us._ But this isn’t what I thought it would be like. What I fucking _fantasized_ about, god. I just wanna go back to before any of this happened. We can do that. We totally can. Just, fucking, I don’t know, I can’t...I need some time, I need...”

He glances down at the drugs.

“Just one more time, and then we’ll fix it. We’ll fix everything. I promise, Tommy. Just wait for me. I love you.”

He hangs up and turns his phone off completely. If Tommy’s not going to take his calls, Adam doesn’t want to talk to him. Or anyone else. After stuffing the phone back in his pocket, Adam unties the baggie and pours a little pile of white powder onto his upturned wrist. He doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and snorts it right off the skin, tilting his head back and letting his wrist follow all the way up. The burn is cold and clear and immediate, and when Adam opens his eyes again, sees his reflection in the mirror, there’s a messy, white smear across his face, sticking to his makeup. He raises his eyebrows at the reflection, feeling suddenly defensive, and sets himself up a second hit. He can handle it.

It goes up easier the second time, and Adam stays very still, head tilted back, breathing slowly and settling his weight with his feet spread. He finally looks down at his wrist, at the powder still clinging to his skin. He licks his finger, wipes it up, rubs it into his mouth. Maybe it’s just in his head, but it hits him faster this way. Adam leans over the sink and rests his forehead against the cool, smooth mirror. He hasn’t even started dancing yet and already he feels overheated.

Outside, the music changes, the beat turning pounding and insistent, and Adam turns his head to listen. The floor is calling. He checks himself one last time in the mirror, making sure his appearance is back to normal, and shoves the empty bag back into his pocket. He feels better already, less like a fuckup and more like Adam Fucking Lambert, the star he is on stage. He welcomes the persona, wrapping it around him like a second skin, and when he leaves the bathroom, it’s with his head held high and his eyes bright. He can’t even remember why he wanted to hide. This is _his_ world. He should be out in it.

He works his way to the middle of the dance floor, and here, in this environment, in his element, he feels like a magnet, drawing everyone to him, holding them close. The press of bodies around him is so welcome, after all this separation from life. He’s finally living again. Finally dancing and having a good time and letting Chad and Jake and _Tommy_ all slip away. It doesn’t take long for Adam to lose himself in the music. He grabs a handful of hair, the shaggy, sweaty curls of a boy dancing against him, and pulls him closer, grinding his cock against the boy’s hip. Fuck, he’s missed this.

A while later, Adam’s dancing with a new person, several new people, everyone, and it actually gets to be too much. He pushes through the writhing crowd, takes a set of stairs two at a time, and bursts out onto a balcony overlooking the back alley. It’s crowded with people, thin and beautiful and scantily dressed, and the air is hazy with the smoke of dozens of cigarettes. Most of them are in groups or pairs, unapproachable. Adam stalks his way around the small space until he finds what he’s looking for.

The boy is young, young enough that the bored expression on his face is likely put on, a play for attention. Adam smirks and thinks to himself that the guy doesn’t need it. He’s beautiful enough to attract all the attention he could ever want without that kind of trick, and yet he’s alone, leaning back against the wall and lighting a second cigarette while Adam watches. Perfect.

He moves smoothly through the crowd and plucks the cigarette right off the boy’s lips without a word, bringing it to his own and taking a deep drag. It’s the first time he’s let himself do it in...he can’t remember how long. Since his theater days, maybe, huddled in back alleys with the rest of the chorus, sacrificing tone for stress relief. No one could hear him back then, anyway. It didn’t matter. It does now, he knows it does -- he has nightmares about his vocals cords sometimes, for fuck’s sake -- but right now he can’t bring himself to care, flying too high on the chemicals streaming through his blood to worry about the addition of a few more.

The guy’s clearly shocked, face frozen in disbelief for a long moment. He collects himself quickly, pulling the shroud of disaffected boredom back over himself like a shield, but it’s too late. Adam’s seen all he needs to. He smiles to himself and feels the beginnings of arousal start to flood through him. He’s already won.

“What the fuck,” the guy says, his tone making it a statement and not a question. Adam answers anyway.

“You lit this for me,” Adam says, pulling the cigarette away between two fingers and leaning in close to blow smoke right in the boy’s face.

His reaction is perfect, disbelief colored with just the tiniest bit of confused doubt. It’s the latter part Adam loves to play with -- the part of them that’s off-balance, that’s unsure, willing to believe whatever he chooses to tell them, if only for the dark, close hours of the night. He brings the cigarette back to his lips and fills his lungs again. Then he takes another step in, pressing his boy back into the wall with the length of his body. He stares into blue eyes and lets the smoke leak out of his mouth slowly, little puffs with each word he speaks. The boy stares right back, never breaking his gaze for a second, and Adam has to give him credit. He’s got some fight to him, something in him that wants to push back. For a second, he thinks how different that is, how novel. But that’s part of a whole messy cluster of thoughts he’s decided not to think about tonight, and he pushes it away and focuses on hips and eyes and the burn of smoke in his throat, the game he’s playing.

“You want me,” Adam murmurs, bending to brush his lips against the boy’s cheek. He twitches against Adam as the smoke tickles his ear, as Adam’s breath ruffles his hair. “Don’t even deny it, boy. You want me.”

“Fuck you,” the boy replies flippantly, but Adam’s not fooled. “Think you’re hot shit.”

“I am hot shit,” Adam says. He reaches down and slides his hand up the boy’s inner thigh, up around the bulge in the front of his tight as fuck jeans. “And you should be grateful I even noticed you.”

The boy rocks into Adam’s hand but turns his head away. “Fucking diva.”

Adam laughs. “I told you, you want me. Next time--” Adam fits his hand around the boy’s throat, pressing his thumb into the hollow between his collarbones. “--don’t deny it.”

Blue eyes and long lashes finally turn up towards Adam again. He can see the naked desire there, the starstruck daze that’s finally broken through the boy’s bored facade. The kid reaches up with one hand, grips Adam’s shoulder as he rolls his body forward, thrusting his cock into Adam’s palm. He keeps eye contact.

“You done playing?” Adam asks, holding himself back when the boy’s clearly begging for a kiss. “I’m not in the mood to play.”

“Okay,” the boy says breathlessly, and Adam grants him the kiss. Adam pushes with his whole body, slams the boy back flat against the wall, and swallows up the pained groan he makes when his head hits the brick, and Adam wants to get those tight jeans down around the boy’s ankles, wants to shove him around and fuck him right here, with the cool breeze lifting the hairs on his arms, but the voices are still too close, too intrusive, and while Adam doubts the paparazzi followed him to this club, he can never be sure. Not with those zoom lenses, and the clear shot through the alley. He can’t risk it, not here.

Adam slides his hand up to the boy’s jaw and presses his fingers into his cheek, forcing the boy’s mouth open wider for Adam’s tongue, his teeth. When Adam finally pulls away, there’s a smear of bright blood at the corner of the boy’s mouth, and Adam watches his tongue dart out to lick it away. The boy’s staring at him, waiting, and Adam knows what he’s waiting for. He grabs the front of the kid’s shirt and yanks him away from the wall, back into the club. He looms over everyone inside, feeling every inch of his height, and the crowd seems to part like water as they pass, his boy trotting along at his heels. It feels good. It feels _right._ This is how things are supposed to be -- easy and malleable and all, all _his._

*

Adam comes to an uncertain amount of time later, dying for water, his lips cracked and his tongue dry. His head is pounding, and he’s glad the room is dark when he opens his eyes. There’s a light on in the bathroom, sending a yellow beam all the way from the doorway to the foot of the bed. Adam pushes himself upright and blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

This isn’t his house. His lights don’t buzz like that, and his bathroom’s on the other side of the room, anyway. Adam rubs his face and looks around. It’s a hotel--a cheap one, from the looks of it--and he’s not sure where his clothes are, except for the belt that’s lying at the foot of the bed, twisted in and out of the beam of light like a snake sunning itself. He’s not even sure that’s his belt.

Adam shoves himself up to his feet and teeters for a moment, reaching out for the nightstand that’s not the right height, not the same as his nightstand at home. He feels sticky and sweaty, and overheated in this tiny fucking room. His jacket is on the floor; he trips over it on the way to the bathroom, and widening the beam of light reveals his pants and one shoe scattered around. His shirt is in the bathroom, in the sink and wet at the corner where it’s touching the drain, and Adam’s glad of it, because when he looks in the mirror he finds come splattered and dried all over his chest. He grabs the shirt and dabs weakly at his skin, wiping it away, but the lights are too harsh, and Adam doesn’t want to keep standing here in front of the mirror where it looks like someone’s watching him.

He goes back to the bed, fully intending to collapse onto it and sleep for another two days or so, but something nags at his brain. The boy, the one he kissed. He’s not here now. He was, though, right? Adam looks around for evidence, but all the clothes on the floor are his own. Adam starts to think that maybe he just needed a place to crash, somewhere away from all those prying eyes, when he spots the condom twisted and half-hidden in a fold of the bedspread.

The boy, that pretty boy with the cigarette. That wasn’t Tommy. That wasn’t Tommy, and there’s no fucking moral high ground now, not when Adam’s pulling the same shit, the same lying, cheating shit.

“Shit,” Adam mutters. _Shit, this is fucked up_. He stands up again, shuffles into the bathroom for a more critical look at his reflection. There’s no bite marks, no bruises he can’t explain--not that Tommy would fucking notice, anyway, drunk out of his mind. Adam splashes some water on his face and it helps wake him up, cool him off, ease that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He makes a list in his head, talks himself through it.

“Need to get dressed. Get the fuck out of here. Fuck. Tommy, _fuck_.” Adam wishes he had something to throw. He wants the satisfying crunch of something breaking, of force meeting resistance and colliding with a sharp crack. He slams his hand down on the bed, and it’s so... dull, so ineffectual, he wants to scream.

The digital clock on the nightstand stares up at him and for the first time, the numbers make sense in his brain. 3:18. He meant to go home almost six hours ago. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans again, pushing the clock off the nightstand. It clatters to the floor and doesn’t break, but it at least gives him a taste of the destruction he’s craving. He rubs his hands tiredly over his face, and unwanted memories of the past few hours flash before his eyes, the images hazy and broken. The teleprompter running backward. Chad’s ugly lips speaking uglier words. Glitter on a dirty bathroom floor.

It takes everything he has to force himself to open his eyes and take stock. Clothes. Clothes first. He’s starting to get cold. Pants-shirt-boots, and even the belt which may or may not have been his to begin with, and he’s feeling a bit more like himself already. His phone is not in its usual pocket, and he’s about to start genuinely _losing his shit_ \-- there are so many numbers in there, and texts, and fucking _pictures_ \-- when he sees it just barely sticking out from under the bed. He snatches it up and holds it tight in his fist, forcing himself to take a deep breath. It’s okay. There’s at least one thing he hasn’t managed to fuck up tonight, even if it was just by dumb luck.

He takes a close look around the room, making sure there isn’t anything else he’s forgetting, anything that could connect him with whatever he’d been doing here during the last few hours. That’s all he needs, another fucking scandal. He never thought he’d be one of _those_ celebrities, the ones who do things like leave their driver’s license in a drug-strewn hotel room, but at this point, after this fucking night, he’s not willing to take the chance.

Most of the room is clear of anything incriminating, at least, though it is an unholy mess. And then Adam comes around to the other side of the bed and sees the low coffee table and its scattering of white powder, and his heart sinks even as a lower, darker part of his brain perks up, suddenly paying attention. He should leave. He should hope to god that he didn’t put the room on one of his cards and just fucking leave it. But he’s coming down fast now, cold hard reality lurking in the distance, and outside this room, Tommy’s waiting for him. Tommy, who loves him, who fucking _worships_ him. Who he’ll have to tell the truth.

The thought of doing that stone sober is terrifying, and Adam’s on his knees before he even realizes what he’s doing, fingers brushing the powder into sloppy lines, then leaning down close over the table, practically burying his face in it, pure action without thought or doubt or regret.

It doesn’t take long to hit his system, not now when the drug is still racing through his veins, and Adam sits back on his heels, pinching his nose and breathing hard through his mouth, rubbing to ease the sting. He doesn’t see any blood on his fingers, and he can’t smell anything coppery, but his nose feels wet now, and he rubs it with the back of his wrist, just to be sure. He examines his arm closely, but his skin is clean.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

There’s not enough left on the table for another line, so Adam brushes it off and digs it into the ratty carpet with the toe of his shoe. He needs to get home. Tommy’s waiting for him. Tommy better be fucking waiting for him. He should’ve answered Adam’s call. Then maybe Adam would’ve gone home, not made him wait so long. He should’ve answered when Adam needed him, so Adam wouldn’t have had to find a fucking replacement. This whole mess is really Tommy’s fault, anyway. He’s just so fucking... _distracting_. Adam would have been fine on that stage tonight without Tommy in his head. He knows it.

Adam gives the room a final once-over and pats himself down, finding his phone and his keys in his pocket. If he overlooked anything else, well... fuck it. It doesn’t matter now. He lets the door slam on his way out and snaps at the skinny kid at the front desk, demanding a cab and tossing the room key at him. Outside, he bums another cigarette off an exhausted-looking maid on her break and smokes it in anxious, shallow drags as he waits for the cab. His voice is gonna be fucked if he has to sing in the next couple days, but he can’t even remember, can’t think about that right now. All that exists is Tommy, waiting for him, waiting for the news that will probably be the end of everything. Adam doesn’t know what comes after that. Doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

The cab ride feels short, even though the meter tells him it’s been more than half an hour, and Adam wonders the whole time what state he’ll find Tommy in, if he’ll be passed out in bed, or puking in the bathroom. Or if, by some miracle, he obeyed Adam and stayed off the booze for one fucking day. But really, option three is so far-fetched it’s laughable. Adam shakes his head as he storms up to the front door, ready to pass judgement on whatever he finds inside.

The door’s not only locked but deadbolted, and Adam curses to himself as he fumbles with the keys. This is taking too fucking long. Now that he’s moving, he doesn’t want to stop for anything, afraid that if he does, he’ll just turn around and never come back. Finally, the lock trips open, and Adam goes inside, shutting the door behind him. Past the point of no return, now.

It’s quiet inside, the sort of heavy quiet that only comes after noise, and Adam feels his apprehension growing. The living room is empty and dark, but there’s light streaming out from the kitchen, drawing him like a moth to a flame. He knows as soon as he sees it that Tommy is there, just around the corner, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, bracing himself for what he might find.

Finally, finally, Adam crosses the hall to stand in the kitchen doorway...and there he is, sitting on the kitchen floor. A bottle in his hand. Anger rises unnaturally quickly in Adam’s brain, burning away all his guilt in a hot, red wave, and for several long moments, all he can do is stare.

Tommy hasn’t heard him come home, hasn’t noticed him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. He’s awake, still, eyelashes fluttering and casting long shadows on his cheeks from the overhead light. The bruise beneath his eye seems highlighted, like this, and Adam wants to touch it, wants to match it on the other side of Tommy’s face. As Adam watches, Tommy lifts the bottle to his lips and drains the last little bit. It looks like he was expecting more. Tommy’s mouth twists into a heartbroken frown and he lets his arm fall, lets the bottle clank loudly on the floor.

Tommy leans his head back against the wall and rolls his neck, and the shadows fall across his cheeks and eyes, making them look sunken and sharp and zombie-like. He looks fucking dead, lying there on the floor. And that’s when Adam’s gaze skips down Tommy’s bare chest, the bumps of his ribcage, to Tommy’s arm where it’s held close against his stomach. There’s blood there, a thin, dried stream running down Tommy’s forearm...and when Adam casts his eyes around the room, he finds a knife, one of his good, sharp kitchen knives, one that belongs in the block on the counter, gleaming on the floor with a rusty smear of blood at the tip. He gasps softly, sparing just a moment for shock before the anger, the overwhelming, uncontrollable anger takes over again. His eyes narrow, and his breath quickens, and the rage flares hot and wild within him, and god, _god,_ he’s gonna make Tommy burn.

*

Tommy hears a soft click of boots against the hardwood floor out in the hall. His eyes fly open and his fingers slip from the neck of the bottle, letting it roll away as he pushes himself more upright. He’s been waiting so long, here in the silence and the too-bright light, but it’s time, _finally_ , time to face Adam and accept whatever punishment Adam decides for him. His mouth opens; he wants to start apologizing now, but Adam isn’t even in the room. Adam hasn’t even seen him yet.

The steps continue slowly into the kitchen, and Tommy keeps his eyes trained on Adam’s feet, on the shiny black leather and scuffed toes. He wants to hide the bottle, but it’s too late; Adam’s seen it, and if he hadn’t, he would know anyway. Adam always knows.

He swallows hard against the dryness in his throat, and listens as the footsteps get closer, heavy and meaningful, the slow march of inevitability. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but it’s something big, something that will change everything. He can feel it, lurking right around the corner.

“What are you doing?” Adam asks, his voice low and sharp, clipped like he can barely force the words out. Tommy shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know what Adam expects of him. “What were you _thinking_?” he asks.

“I... I wasn’t,” Tommy admits quietly. He can’t bring himself to look up to Adam’s face. He can hear the tightly restrained anger in Adam’s voice, and he’s not sure he can face the image of it burning in Adam’s eyes.

Adam lets out a harsh sound, a loud breath. “You don’t think,” he snaps. “You never fucking think.”

Tommy winces at the tone, Adam’s words as cutting and painful as any knife. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, breathless.

There’s a long moment of silence, and Tommy can’t breathe again until Adam’s voice comes down to him, cold and hard and impossible to disobey.

“Tell me. Tell me exactly what you did. I want to know every fucking thing you’re apologizing for.”

Tommy whines and covers his face with shaking hands. Adam knows already -- why should he have to _say?_

“Don’t you fucking hide from me,” Adam shouts, and Tommy’s hands drop a few inches immediately, just enough for Tommy to look up, see how furious Adam is. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hands into fists. “Look at me,” Adam demands, “and tell me what you did.”

Tommy puts his hands at his sides and takes a deep breath before finally raising his head and facing Adam. “I--I messed up,” Tommy begins, and it’s hard to spit the words out without stuttering. “I’m sorry. I... I started drinking and I knew it was bad and I didn’t mean to but you weren’t here and I needed--” Tommy suddenly realizes how that sounds, how he’s blaming Adam for his own fuck-ups, and he shakes his head violently. “No, I mean... I tried, but I just couldn’t stop, and I didn’t mean to but I couldn’t stop.”

A loud, clattering sound rings through the kitchen. The empty glass bottle of Jack skids across the floor as Adam kicks it. It runs into the base of the cabinet and a piece of the neck snaps off, razor sharp with light glinting off the broken edge.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers again, unable to take his eyes off the bottle. He knows it’s empty, and he knows it’s broken, but he wants to crawl over to it and check, just to make sure.

“What else?” Adam asks quietly, his voice low and smooth again. Tommy forces his gaze back up.

“I let...I didn’t mean to, but he...I let him...”

Adam’s eyes grow sharp, and he arches one eyebrow, such a tiny motion, but one that changes his whole face, makes him look dangerous. Predatory. “ _Him?_ ” he asks, letting the word ring out, echoing off all the hard spaces in the room.

“Isaac, just Isaac,” Tommy says quickly, trying to make Adam understand. “He was here, and Sutan...I think they were just trying to um, help me? But then my shirt was off, and Isaac was grabbing me, and I...”

“What did you do?” Adam hisses.

Tommy shakes his head quickly. “Nothing, nothing happened, Adam, I fucking swear it.”

Adam’s hands clench into fists at his sides, and Tommy watches them, watches the muscles in his arms flex minutely. “Don’t lie to me,” Adam says darkly, and Tommy’s chest clenches tight as a dozen memories come flooding back, all the times those words have been thrown down at him, an accusation as much as an order.

For maybe the first time, he’s able to look back up and say, miserably, “I’m not.”

Adam scoffs and twists his body, his boots sliding on the floor as he turns around. Tommy sees it all in slow motion, sees Adam walking away from him, leaving him alone, and he dives forward, scrambling onto his hands and knees, grabbing for Adam’s boot. He gets his hand wrapped around the back of Adam’s ankle and Adam stops.

“No, no, Adam, please,” Tommy babbles. “Don’t go, please, I’ll do anything, give me--anything you want, punish me, I’ll take it. I know I deserve it, Adam. Please don’t leave.”

He pauses, and through the silence he can hear Adam’s harsh, fast breathing. He wonders what Adam’s waiting for. Wonders if he’s _deciding_. If he is, Tommy only has one card to play, one thing he can say to make Adam stay. He leans closer, lower, presses his face into the soft leather of Adam’s boots and murmurs with raw honesty. “I’m yours.”

Adam turns around, three careful steps, and Tommy doesn’t move, just looks up through his eyelashes and waits. Adam crosses his arms over his chest, cocks his head, and gives Tommy a coolly appraising look. “Then show me.”

Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He presses his lips right to the scuffed toe of Adam’s left boot, feeling the roughness of it, and sucks a kiss there, leaving a shiny smear of moisture when he pulls away. He stares at the mark for a few seconds, then bends low again and drags his tongue up the smooth leather toe. It might be his imagination, but he thinks he can feel the heat of Adam’s foot through the boot. He gives the leather another slow, wet kiss, widening the shiny mark with his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, brushing his lips feather-light up over the top of Adam’s foot. He kisses again at the base of his ankle, right at the joint. “I’m yours, Adam, I’m just yours. Please forgive me.”

Tommy shifts his hand, stroking his thumb along the hold metal line of the zipper. He turns his head to the side, presses a kiss to the outer edge of the boot, and glances up through the corner of his eye. Adam’s leg stretches up before him, like miles and miles Tommy can’t hope to cross, and he can’t even see Adam’s face, just the dark blur of his hair. Tommy closes his eyes and drags his teeth along the leather, sucking the taste into his mouth, trying to absorb it and let his apology seep into it in return. He needs Adam to know he’s not lying. He needs Adam to know he’s sorry.

He hits the floor, pushed onto his side and sliding, before he even realizes what’s happening. Adam’s right foot keeps moving, keeps pushing Tommy’s shoulder, shoving him across the floor, shoving him _away_ , and Tommy wants to cry. He’s on his back, finally, with the heel of Adam’s boot digging into his bare chest and forcing him flat on the hard floor, and Tommy shudders, panting and gasping and trying desperately to hold back his tears.

“Get up,” Adam grinds out, eventually lifting his foot for Tommy to obey. “Strip.”

Tommy struggles backward until he runs into the wall again, uses it to drag himself to his feet. Adam stands several feet away from him, arms still crossed and eyes still narrowed, but somehow he looks even more powerful now, even taller, towering over Tommy from across the room. Tommy stares at him and wrenches apart his fly with shaking fingers. The pants are tight around his thighs and he can’t just let them fall; it hurts to bend over, stretches the welts on his back, and the denim drags roughly over the soreness on his ass and thighs. Tommy finally kicks off the jeans and yanks the socks away and stands before Adam, one hand tight on the edge of the counter to keep himself upright. He wants to sink back to his knees, likes the stability of it, but Adam told him to stand, and Tommy isn’t going to fuck this up now. Not again.

Adam watches him without moving, tracking his progress with unnaturally dark eyes. Then, finally, when he’s standing naked, Adam bends down and picks up something off the kitchen floor, something Tommy had forgotten about. _Made_ himself forget about, maybe. It’s too much to think about, too frightening, too exciting in its sharp wrongness. And now Adam is approaching him slowly, with the knife in one hand and a look on his face Tommy’s never seen before, something a little wild, a little _alien_.

Tommy sucks in a breath and it sticks in his throat. He wants to cough, wants to turn his head away, but he’s caught in Adam’s stare and he can’t move. He lets out a gasp and chokes down another quick breath, and the knife extends towards him. Adam’s hand, holding the knife, is completely still, but Tommy’s entire body is shaking violently. Adam puts the bloodstained tip of the knife to Tommy’s cheek, just barely touching it to the bruise beneath his eye. Tommy can’t even feel it, it’s so sharp, such a pinprick, and he wonders if he’s bleeding, wonders if that’s blood dripping down his cheek or just tears. He can’t tell. His skin feels damp and cold. Adam drags the knife down, pushing in as it crosses the fleshy part of Tommy’s cheek, forcing his mouth to open, and it doesn’t hurt. Tommy clings to that fact and repeats it over and over again in his mind. _It doesn_ ’ _t hurt. It doesn_ ’ _t hurt._ The knife tip continues over Tommy’s lower lip, and he can tell now that it isn’t cutting his skin, isn’t making him bleed, but Adam digs it in anyway, just to the point of breaking through but not beyond.

“What’s the knife for, Tommy?” Adam asks in a whisper. “Tell me the truth, now. Tell me what the fuck you think you were doing. Tell me about _this._ ”

Adam’s free hand grabs Tommy’s wrist, and he wrenches Tommy’s arm up so that they can both see the cut there, the trail of rusty red blood on his pale skin. Tommy stares with wide eyes, can’t tear his gaze away as Adam bends his head down to the wound, licking over it with broad strokes of his tongue, cleaning up the bloodstain and leaving clear saliva behind. The touch is hot and wet and so _intimate_ , and Tommy moans, not knowing how how to feel, how to react. It’s too much, but he knows he never wants it to stop, would give Adam more if he wanted it, so much more.

“I asked you a question,” Adam growls against his skin, and Tommy jumps, startled. It seems like ages have passed in a span of seconds, and he searches his mind for what he’s supposed to be answering. What _was_ the knife for? He can’t remember. That was before, before Adam’s grip on his wrist and tongue on his flesh and hand holding the point of the knife into the softness his jaw, so distant it hardly seems to have happened at all.

“I don’t...I don’t know...”

“Did you cut yourself?”

“I...yes.”

“Have you done it before?”

“No! Never, Adam, I...”

“But did you want to?”

Tommy bites down on his lip, hard, hard enough to break the delicate skin there. There are words behind his lips, an answer to Adam’s question, but he’s too afraid to say them. To _admit_ to them.

Adam shakes him and presses the knife the tiniest bit harder. “No secrets, Tommy. Not from me.”

“I...I wanted...” He tries. He does. But this is beyond him, and the words collapse into a pained sob. He can’t, not even for Adam. It’s too hard. He _can_ ’ _t_.

Adam takes the knife away, slams his hand against the wall over Tommy’s head. “Tell me!” he orders, right in Tommy’s face, but Tommy can’t make his lips move, can’t force sound out of his throat. Adam finally drops Tommy’s wrist and pushes down on his shoulder instead, barking out, “Get on your knees.”

Tommy complies and settles his weight gratefully, ready to finally, _finally_ take his punishment...but Adam just sinks down in front of him and traces the tip of the knife around the side of his neck, still teasing, still provoking.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, sounding almost sweet. But Tommy stares into Adam’s dark eyes, and he’s not fooled.

“I said I’d wait for you,” Tommy whispers. “I promised Isaac I wouldn’t...do it. Again.”

“You promised,” Adam says. “Like you promised me you wouldn’t drink? Are your promises to him more important than the ones to me? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Tommy shakes his head with tight, quick movements, careful not to press his throat against the sharp tip of the knife. “No, I just--I didn’t want to. I wanted _you_ to... I needed you.”

Adam seems to understand. He nods and his face smooths a little, almost relaxed. He lifts the knife from Tommy’s neck and sets the tip against his sternum instead. His voice is calm and melodic when he speaks again. “Be still now, baby. Quiet and still. I’m gonna tell you the rules.”

Rules. Tommy can do rules. He can follow rules. He nods and presses his lips together, determined not to make a sound.

“You’re mine,” Adam tells him. He sets the knife into motion, drags it around in a wide circle across Tommy’s pecs, around his nipple, back to the middle of his chest. “Your body. Your mind. Your _blood._ And you’re not allowed to do these things.”

The sharp point suddenly catches on Tommy’s skin, digs in. A bright bead of blood wells up and Tommy sucks in a sharp gasp.

“You’re not allowed to drink,” Adam says. The knife digs in again and this time Tommy can’t hold back his cry. Adam’s free hand swings out and catches Tommy across the cheek, throwing his head to the side. “I told you to be quiet.”

Tommy nods again and looks down at the knife, at the little spots of blood on his chest. Adam continues, and the blood starts dripping down.

“You’re not allowed to touch anyone, or let them touch you. Not Isaac, not Sutan. Not _anyone._ I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses. If you’re mine, you’re _mine._ It’s not allowed, do you understand me?” Adam growls. Tommy nods and clenches his hands into fists. The blood keeps sliding down his chest, two--no, three now. Three little trails, one dipping into his belly button and another almost reaching his hip. Adam twists the knife and another sharp jab of pain startles a cry out of Tommy. Adam slaps him again and snaps, “Stop it.” It takes a long moment for Tommy to get himself under control.

“You’re not. Allowed. To cut yourself,” Adam tells him, the calm in his voice breaking into anger. His tone makes Tommy look back up, and he opens his mouth to apologize, but then the knife slides against his nipple, slicing the skin in a long, smooth line, and Tommy screams.

His cheek blazes hot as Adam slaps him again, and again when Tommy doesn’t quiet down. Tommy can’t stop. He can’t even breathe through the pain. Blood slides sickly down his chest, and it dries cold, and all the welts on his back, pressed hard against the wall, are screaming at him. His whole body is telling him to move, to slip away, and Tommy can’t obey it, not when Adam wants him still and quiet. A sob catches in his throat and he gasps, and the tears flow in earnest, and Adam’s hand connects again with his cheek. This time, though, Adam doesn’t let Tommy’s head swing around. He digs his thumb in under Tommy’s chin, grinds his palm against the fiery spot on his cheek, and holds him upright. Tommy hears a metallic clatter as Adam tosses the knife away. It skitters across the floor and Tommy can’t see it anymore, but he still hurts, all the cuts still hurt.

He forces his eyes open, forces himself to meet Adam’s gaze, but Adam only holds it for a second before bending down and flattening his tongue against the long cut next to Tommy’s nipple, sucking the blood right off Tommy’s skin. It hurts, especially when Adam presses his tongue hard against the cut, as if he wants more...but it’s also a relief, in a way. Adam’s touching him, _drinking_ him, taking part of Tommy inside himself. It means Adam’s not leaving. It means Adam still wants him. The realization is overwhelming, and Tommy sighs into Adam’s touch, his body relaxing, letting go of some of the terrified tension that’s been building ever since he heard Adam’s boots in the hall.

Adam licks until the wounds are starting to close, only the deepest cut still trickling blood. Then he raises his head and looks into Tommy’s eyes, and Tommy gasps at the emotion there just as Adam leans down to kiss him, deep and claiming, letting Tommy taste the coppery tang of blood still on his tongue.

“Get on the floor,” Adam tells him, letting the sound slip out between their lips. Tommy doesn’t want to move; Adam’s kissing him, claiming him, and he’s scared to let this moment slip away. But Adam finally breaks the kiss and pushes down on Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy slides down the wall like water, spreading into a puddle at Adam’s feet. It hurts his back to lie against the hard floor, but it’s nice, too, it’s easy. He spreads his arms over his head, spreads his knees to make space for Adam to kneel between them, and Adam moves into place immediately. Tommy smiles. It’s like they’re on the same wavelength, connected again. _Finally_.

Adam rests a hand on the middle of Tommy’s chest and pushes down hard, like he thinks Tommy’s trying to get up or struggle. He isn’t, and it it just sends sparks of pain shooting through his body, reopens the cuts on his sternum. Tommy thinks he can hear his skin tearing, ripping apart under Adam’s hands. He starts crying again, and this time Adam doesn’t reprimand him for it. Tommy almost misses the expected slap.

The wavering image of Adam above him blurs with tears, and Tommy quickly blinks them away when he hears the clank and click of Adam’s belt, then the loud scrape of the zipper drawing down. Tommy’s gaze flicks down to see Adam’s hands pushing apart the sides of his pants, taking out his cock and stroking, and it’s a tease, Tommy knows it’s just a tease, but he’s ready to beg for it anyway. He looks back at Adam’s face and it’s sweeter now, even with the dark eyes and the harsh set of his mouth.

“Tommy,” he whispers. “Fucking beautiful. You’re beautiful like this.”

Tommy’s mouth drops open, and all the breath goes out of his body, and the tears come harder, welling up behind his eyes and streaming freely down his face into his hair. It doesn’t make sense, because his eyes are puffy and red and raw, and his lips are bitten and bleeding, and the awkward lines of his body are so visible in the harsh white light, laid out for Adam, highlighting every flaw. And yet...Adam’s face is open, and his words are rough and honest, and Tommy...Tommy _believes_ him. His body convulses in another sob, and his hands reach for Adam despite themselves, and the words are already in the air, small and stark and shaking, before he even knows he’s going to say them.

“I love you.”

Adam’s face changes, then, losing some of the angry dominance he’s displayed ever since coming into the room. Tommy can see behind the persona, all the way down to what Adam’s feeling at the very bottom of himself, the very core. And though Adam doesn’t say as much, Tommy can see it in his face, the want and care and _need_ reflecting back on his own.

“Up,” Adam says softly. Tommy raises his knees, and Adam hooks an arm underneath, rolling his body up and displaying his ass. He feels the slick push of Adam’s cock at his hole, waiting. Tommy holds his breath. Adam pushes, just a little, smearing his precome around Tommy’s ass and stretching up just enough for the head of Adam’s cock. Then he pulls back, leans down, spits on Tommy’s ass, a thick splatter of saliva dripping down over his hole and inside him.

“Yeah,” Adam says, fitting his cock to Tommy’s hole again. He pushes just the head in, pulls out, does it again. “Fuck yeah, this is how it should be,” he mutters. “You’re mine, there’s nothing between us now. Nothing keeping you from me. No one else gets you like this. No one else touches you, not ever again, Tommy. I was your first, and I’m gonna be your last. You’re _mine_.”

“Yes,” Tommy gasps. It feels thick in his throat, but the words are as natural as anything. “Yours, just yours.”

Adam rests his cockhead against Tommy’s asshole again, not pushing in now, just waiting. Teasing again. Tommy moans, rolling his head against the floor. He wonders if Adam’s waiting for him to beg. He’ll do it. He wants to, he wants it so fucking bad, but before he can form the words, Adam’s leaning over him, holding himself up with one hand on Tommy’s chest.

“Open,” he growls. “Open for me. Just for me.”

Adam forces his cock past any resistance and Tommy grits his teeth, focusing hard on opening himself up, letting Adam inside him. He ignores the pain, the sudden stretch around Adam’s thick cock, and rocks into his thrust, spreading his legs and baring down and letting the sensations consume him. Adam plants his hands on Tommy’s hips, digging in, and pulls until he can’t go any further, as deep inside Tommy as he can get.

“ _Fuck_ , Tommy, so fucking perfect for me, come on, come on,” Adam says in a rush, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give Tommy time to adjust, just lets his hips _fuck_ , artless and rough and just what Tommy needs. He feels _taken_ in a way he never has before, Adam giving no thought to his pleasure, his comfort, and it feels so right Tommy doesn’t even question his own reaction, just gives himself up to it. This is what he’s been chasing after since before he can remember -- this, right here, is where he was always meant to be, existing only in Adam’s shadow, hidden and protected and _used_.

And when Adam’s hands slide up the sides of his body to rest heavily on Tommy’s throat, that feels right, too. He tenses up, anticipating, but as soon as Adam’s fingers tighten around him, as soon as it takes effort to draw in a breath, Tommy’s body relaxes and his mind calms. Adam keeps fucking him, but it’s easy now, and Tommy stops concentrating on letting Adam in; it’s not a matter of letting Adam in, anymore, it’s of Adam taking what he wants from Tommy. It’s of Adam taking _everything_ he wants from Tommy, right down to his breath.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck,” Adam says. “So fucking good, baby, just for me. Look at you. Fuckin’ look at you, baby. Your blood and bruises and fuckin’ _tears_ , it’s all mine. Feel my cock in you, Tommy, you feel it? Feel _me_ in you? No one’s ever gonna be as close to you as I am right now. No one is ever going to see you like this, not ever.”

The words filter through the haze in Tommy’s brain and some of it doesn’t even make sense, but Adam’s talking to him, Adam’s saying his name, saying Tommy’s _his_ , and the words don’t matter. Tommy curls a hand around Adam’s wrist where it’s resting on his collar bone, so gently, barely holding on through the force of his thrusts. He doesn’t want to pull Adam away, and he doesn’t even want Adam’s attention; he just wants to feel the blood beneath Adam’s skin, feel the pounding of his pulse, feel how alive and powerful he is. He tries to keep that rhythm in his mind, until the frantic thud of his own heartbeat drowns it out in his ears.

Adam’s hands squeeze tighter, and now Tommy can’t breathe at all, no matter how hard his body tries to get at the air. Adam holds. Holds. _Holds_ , and suddenly Tommy realizes that Adam’s not going to let go _._ There is one blurry moment of panic, just one, and then his eyes shoot wide as everything, _everything_ comes together in one beautiful flash of clarity. Adam knows. Adam’s _always_ known, has been bringing him further and further down every day toward a place of peace and calm and relief, a place he never wants to come out of. Tommy should have realized earlier, but it doesn’t matter. He knows now, knows where Adam’s taking him and knows that he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything, this gift. This...end.

 _First and last_ , Tommy thinks. Adam’s shown him so much since that first time. So many ways to be good, be _better_ , and now it’s the last time, and he’s never felt more perfect and beautiful than he does in this moment. He wants to hold Adam’s gaze, but it’s hard to focus, hard to keep his eyes open, and his hand spasms tight for a brief second around Adam’s wrist. He’s ready to let go now, and his fingers fall open, his arm sliding down to the floor and his eyes closing. He’s ready to let go, because Adam’s taking him down, and Adam’s holding him tight, and this is what Adam wants. This is what Tommy wants, too. This is what Tommy’s been waiting for, what he’s craved since Adam first closed his hands around Tommy’s throat and showed him what he could be.

Tommy dimly recognizes that it’s better like this, with Adam’s hands cutting off his air, than with the knife digging into his arm, or slicing open his throat, or any of the bloody ways he’d imagined. Those ways would be messy and painful, but this is perfect. This is just him and Adam, and nothing between them.

His brain is starting to go fuzzy now, and it’s hard to think at all. He can barely even feel Adam’s touch on him anymore, or the burning in his lungs, or the cold, hard floor beneath him. There’s a darkness creeping up on him that’s deeper than the darkness of closed eyes, clouding the edges of the world and gaining fast. Seconds now -- so little time, but maybe, just maybe, time enough.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, forcing his eyes open again. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy, and his body doesn’t want to obey him, nearly lost in the floating darkness. But he manages it, only just, the tiniest slit but enough to see through. And there, so close, hovering just above him, is Adam -- Adam looking down at him with blown-wide eyes. Tommy has never been able to get those eyes out of his head, not since the day he first saw them, the day Adam chose him from the crowd and changed his life forever. Chose him for _this._

He watches as long as he can, the last thing he’ll ever see before the darkness takes him -- Adam watching him go as his eyes slip closed one final time.

*

Adam comes with his hands around Tommy’s throat, spilling himself into the heat of Tommy’s body, lost in the high of drugs and sex and _Tommy_ , so pliant under him. He drifts for a moment, catching his breath and relaxing his hands, and finally looks down to see if Tommy’s come. He hasn’t. He’s not even hard, now, and Adam’s almost positive he didn’t come earlier, and Tommy isn’t even reaching for Adam, isn’t saying anything. In fact, his hands are on the floor, his fingers limp and just barely curled. Adam stares for a moment, then looks to Tommy’s face, expecting to see that familiar, dazed look in Tommy’s eyes, see his lips parted as he gasps for air.

But Tommy isn’t gasping, and his eyes are closed. He doesn’t even move when Adam rolls off him.

“Tommy,” Adam says softly, wondering if maybe he passed out. That’s happened before, way back during Burning Man, when everyone was flying so high they didn’t realize how exhausted they were until they fell asleep. But Tommy should be gasping. Tommy should wake up now.

“Tommy,” he says again, sharper this time, and shakes Tommy’s shoulder a little, just enough to startle him awake. Tommy’s a fairly light sleeper. Adam shakes him harder, shoves him, but his head just lolls on the hard floor, just as loose as his hands.

“Fuck,” Adam gasps. “Fuck, _Tommy_.” He’s not breathing. _Fuck_. “Tommy, wake up. Tommy. Fucking _wake up_ , Tommy, come on.” He’s not moving. Adam doesn’t know CPR, doesn’t know how to bring someone back from something like this. He tries to think about the movies he’s seen, all those fucking romantic comedies where the girl suddenly blinks and professes her undying love for the man who saved her. This doesn’t look anything like that. He’s not _breathing_.

Adam slaps Tommy’s bruised cheek. The mark seems darker now, or Tommy seems even more pale than usual. He remembers something about slapping to get the blood flowing, or maybe that was for hypothermia. Either way, Tommy doesn’t respond. Adam sets his weight, one knee on either side of Tommy’s narrow hips, and slaps him again on the other cheek, but his head just turns to the side.

“ _Tommy_ ,” Adam screams at him. Maybe he can hear, maybe that will bring him back. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, wake the fuck up! Don’t you fucking do this, don’t you fucking give up now. You’re not allowed to give up, Tommy, you hear me? Not allowed!”

He rests his hand on Tommy’s chest, wondering if he can feel for Tommy’s heartbeat. But he can’t feel anything. He doesn’t know if that’s because Tommy’s heart isn’t beating, or if maybe he’s just not touching him in the right place. Adam’s hands are shaking. Maybe that’s why he can’t feel anything. Adam freezes, staring down at the still form under his naked thighs.

“What the fuck?” he asks. “Come on, Tommy, what the fuck is going on, you can’t fucking do this. You can’t do this to me.” There are tears on Adam’s cheeks but he doesn’t remember starting to cry. It’s like they’re just leaking out of him. He shoves Tommy’s shoulder again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tommy, come on, _fuck_ \--”

Adam slams his fist down in the center of Tommy’s chest. “Wake the fuck up, you can’t give up like this,” he screams. “Come on, baby, come on, breathe for me, come on.” Adam leans down and puts his cheek against Tommy’s. His skin is warm, still. That’s a good thing. Or maybe it’s just the blood, the heat of the bruise. “Come on, baby,” Adam whispers. His throat feels awful, thick and painfully tight, and he can barely force the words out. “Wake up for me, Tommy, please, come on, breathe, baby, please, breathe for me.”

Another heavy slam on Tommy’s chest, and another, and Adam doesn’t even know if he’s helping or hurting, but he needs Tommy to breathe, he needs Tommy to open his eyes.

And Tommy does. His face tightens, his forehead wrinkles, and he coughs violently. He shakes and shudders and tries to roll over, and Adam sits bolt upright, jaw hanging open and tears streaming down his face. He lets Tommy writhe there on the floor for far too long, lets him struggle for breath all on his own, until Tommy finally opens his eyes fully and sucks in a ragged breath. His gaze finds Adam, and that kicks Adam into motion. He bends down again, slides his arm under Tommy’s bony shoulders, and pulls him into his lap. There’s no resistance, no strength in Tommy now, and he folds into Adam’s arms like a ragdoll, boneless and limp.

Adam can feel his heart beating now, the frantic, arrhythmic race of it through Tommy’s ribs, and he can feel Tommy’s chest expanding and shuddering with every desperate breath. Tommy keeps coughing, and it sounds painful, and Adam knows the bruises around his throat will be livid and dark, but he’s breathing, and he’s in Adam’s arms, and nothing but that matters right now.

He doesn’t know how much time passes then, as they sit naked on the kitchen floor, Adam holding Tommy tight. Long enough for Tommy’s breathing to return to something resembling normal, for Adam’s heart to stop skittering in his chest like a frightened animal. He’s coming down again, slowly, slower than he wants to. He wants the drugs out of his body completely, and he wants to never fucking touch them again. The things they made him do... _almost_ do tonight...he takes another shuddering breath and buries his wet face in Tommy’s neck. It’s unthinkable, like a dream, like a fucking nightmare. Never again.

It’s that desperate need to be clean that pushes him to speak. Tommy hasn’t said a word yet, and it’s not the right time, not even close...but Adam has to tell him. The things he’s done tonight well up in his throat like acidic bile, painful and foreign, and he just needs them _out._ And what comes after...will come after. Adam has never felt less in control in his life. He hardly feels like himself at all. He wouldn’t _do_ something like...like this. He _couldn’t._ It’s wrong, all wrong. And yet there are the bruises on Tommy’s neck, the cuts on his chest, a confession written in flesh and blood, inescapable.

“Tommy,” Adam whispers. “Baby. Come here, look at me. Let me see.”

He reaches up and takes Tommy gently by the chin, turns his face up toward Adam’s. But Tommy’s eyes stay downcast, and no matter what Adam does, he refuses to meet Adam’s gaze. Adam swallows hard and soldiers on.

“I’m so sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to, I should have _known._ I should have stopped. Fuck, you scared me so bad. I thought...I thought you were...” The word is in his head, but he can’t say it. Saying it makes it too real. It’s real enough. Adam chokes back a sob and continues. “I fucked up tonight, Tommy. So fucking bad.”

Tommy’s shaking his head now, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a frustrated rasp of air. Too soon, and Adam strokes his fingers through Tommy’s hair to quiet him. He doesn’t want to hear, not until he’s said it all. “I can’t believe I...fuck, Tommy, there’s more, there’s...something I have to tell you.” He pauses, gathering up the strength he has left. He’s never had to admit to this before. He didn’t realize it would be so hard.

“I was late coming home tonight. I wanted to come home, I promise, I did, but I was so _angry_ , and you...fuck, Tommy, you make me do these things, these fucking things that k...kill me when I calm down. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t...but I guess it didn’t matter in the end. I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t...” He’s crying again, harder, and Tommy still isn’t looking at him, and Adam can’t understand why. He forces himself to go on, to get it all out now that he’s started. No going back. “I went...out. There were drugs, and I, fuck, Tommy, I just needed _something_ , something to help me deal with everything. I took...and then I was dancing, and there was this guy, and I just...I wanted _you_ , but you weren’t there, you didn’t answer when I called, why didn’t you answer? Why couldn’t you just be there for me, the one fucking time I really needed you?”

Adam’s hands are on Tommy’s shoulders now, gripping too tight, leaving more bruises. Shaking him, as if he’s still not quite awake, still not quite _with_ Adam the way he should be. “You made me a cheater, Tommy. You almost made me a fucking...fucking _murderer._ How could you do that? Why didn’t you _stop me_?” He’s screaming now, spiralling out of control, and finally, finally, Tommy looks up, letting Adam see the look in his eyes. In the next moment, Adam wishes he hadn’t, wishes he could shut his eyes and block that look from his memory forever, that look of utter hopelessness. Of despair.

“Because...” Tommy coughs, and his voice is as coarse as sand, nothing like what it should be. What it was. “Because I didn’t _want_ you to stop.”

“What was I supposed to do? Huh? What the fuck did you expect me to do, Tommy?” Adam snaps. Tommy starts shifting in Adam’s arms, pushing weakly at Adam’s hands, but Adam can’t let him go. He can’t let Tommy go. He _can’t_. “What?” he asks again. “Did you think I could actually... actually...”

“Fuck,” Tommy gasps. He’s not looking at Adam again, not letting Adam see his eyes, and he slaps Adam’s hands away. “Fuck, lemme go, let go.”

“No--”

“Adam, please...”

“No, Tommy, you can’t--”

“Let me go!” Tommy cries, and in a burst of motion, he forces himself out of Adam’s hold. He slides to the floor and curls up a little, on his side with his knees bent towards his chest. He’s crying now, sobbing, and Adam can’t help but think _I did that_. Tommy hides his face in his hands, but he doesn’t sound sad when he speaks. He sounds angry. “You should’ve fucking done it,” he spits out, wet and rough and so unexpectedly brutal that Adam can’t breathe, can’t react in time to stop him from continuing. “Why didn’t you? Why couldn’t you just give me that, Adam, Jesus Christ, why couldn’t you give me the _one thing_ I needed?”

Tommy pushes himself up and his arms shake, but he leans against the cabinet, uses it to get all the way to his feet so he’s looking down at Adam, and Adam’s never seen him so _angry_. He doesn’t know what to do, how to respond.

“This whole time,” Tommy shouts. “This whole time, it’s been leading up to this, and once you finally did it, you couldn’t fucking stick to it? What kind of fucking bullshit is that, Adam? What are you trying to do? Why did you take that away from me, why did you give up?”

“I didn’t fucking give up,” Adam says sharply. “That’s what you--”

“You gave up on me,” Tommy screams, leaning down to get in Adam’s face. He’s shaking with rage, eyes dark and wet and sad. “Why couldn’t you let me fucking die, you fucking asshole?”

Adam leaps to his feet and grabs for Tommy’s shoulder but Tommy spins out of reach and crosses the kitchen to stand against the opposite counter. He stays very still, panting hard for a long moment, watching Adam like a frightened animal about to bolt, and Adam’s almost scared to approach. He’s never seen Tommy like this--never seen _anyone_ like this--and he’s not sure what he’ll do. He lifts his hand slowly, carefully, expecting Tommy to flinch.

Tommy just grits his teeth in a tight grimace and turns around to face the cabinet. He opens it, and for a second, Adam’s confused. Until he sees Tommy take down the bottle of vodka.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Adam asks quietly.

“You don’t even care,” Tommy replies. Adam hears the metallic sound of the cap unscrewing, sees the bruised muscles in Tommy’s back shift beneath his skin as he raises the bottle to his lips and drinks. Tommy coughs, clears his throat. “Stop pretending you do.”

“Of course I do,” Adam tells him. “Of course I care, Tommy. You’re the one that... that wants... How could you want that, Tommy? How could you want to die?”

Tommy finally turns to face Adam, the bottle caught in his tightly clenched fist. “You were the one that showed me, Adam. You showed me the edge. Why won’t you just let me jump?”

Adam shakes his head. “No. You can’t do this, you can’t... You can’t _think_ like this. It’s fucked up. What the fuck are you thinking? Stop drinking, Tommy, I told you not--”

“I don’t have to listen to you anymore,” Tommy cries. “You don’t care. Just leave me alone. You can’t tell me what to do anymore. You don’t fucking deserve it.”

“Tommy,” Adam snaps, taking two quick steps forward. He stops just out of Tommy’s reach. “Tommy, just calm down. Can’t we...I don’t know, can we talk about this?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Well, fucking make me understand!” Adam says, his voice high and panicked. He takes another step toward Tommy, reaching for him. Tommy flinches away, hard, and his hands scrabble along the counter behind him, fingers closing around a juice glass, one of a pile that’s been set by the sink to dry. Adam stares for a long second and almost laughs, a hysterical bubble in his brain. Dishes. They were the kind of people who did dishes, once. A lifetime ago. He watches Tommy grip the glass, watches his arm moving and the look on his face, the blank rage, everything seeming to move in slow motion until...

The glass shatters on the floor beside him, and Tommy’s already reaching for another one by the time Adam can react, can lunge out of the way, hyper-aware of all Tommy’s bare, vulnerable skin. Tommy throws again, not even at Adam this time, just throwing, screaming wordlessly through the crashing sound. Then he reaches over the counter again and sweeps the rest of the dishes onto the floor with one arm, glass and plastic and silverware and porcelain all coming down in a broken mess. It’s the last straw.

Adam crosses the floor quickly, boots crunching against shards of glass, not wanting to give Tommy enough time to find something else to destroy. He traps Tommy against the counter and wraps his arms tight around his waist, picking him up just enough so that his feet don’t touch the floor, out of danger of getting cut. Tommy struggles against his grip like a wild thing, twisting and turning and still shouting, but Adam manages to get them both out into the hall before dropping him.

Tommy’s screaming, and Adam thinks there are words under the noise, but he can’t pick them out, can’t hear anything but screaming over the ringing in his ears. Tommy slaps at Adam’s arms, working himself out of Adam’s grip, but Adam refuses to let go, and they stumble down the hall together until Tommy crashes into the wall. Adam pins him there against it, just trying now to hold Tommy _still_ , and he thinks he’s got it, he thinks he’s managed to get Tommy caught and safe when Tommy’s fist slams into his face.

Pain explodes through his jaw and blood floods his mouth, and Adam’s so shocked, so hurt by the unexpected force, that he reels back, barely keeping his feet under him. He hits the opposite wall and slaps his open hand to it, trying to cling to the flat surface and hold himself upright. His chin feels wet and sticky with blood, and his tongue stings like nothing he’s felt before, and he just feels _broken_. Adam leans against the wall and cups both hands over the corner of his jaw He spits blood and curses and looks over at Tommy--

But Tommy’s gone.

*

Tommy almost loses his footing when he runs back to the kitchen and broken glass slides under his bare feet. It hurts in a distant sort of way that lets him know he’s bleeding, but nothing can drown out the thoughts rattling through his mind. Adam. He _hit Adam._ Punched him in the fucking face. The memory is totally surreal, and Tommy doesn’t know how to feel about it, if there even _are_ feelings for something like this, something so backward.

He’s reacting all wrong, he knows it. He should accept that Adam knows what’s best for him. He should deal. But, he thinks as he pulls his pants roughly over too-thin hips, that’s just the problem. Maybe he misunderstood, and maybe Adam didn’t mean to choke him so long at all, but it doesn’t matter now. He’d thought he was _done_ dealing, with _everything_. And if Adam isn’t going to give him that, there’s no reason to stay here. Adam will only hold him back.

He turns around, looking for his shirt, but finds Adam standing in the doorway, watching him, his broad, tall form filling the entire doorframe. His shirt is nowhere to be found, and Tommy can’t remember the last time he had it on. Maybe the bedroom, or... no, Isaac made him take it off in the living room. Tommy needs it, now, needs to cover himself. He suddenly can’t stand to be in front of Adam like this, so exposed and broken. He can never remember wanting to put distance between them before, but now he can’t get away fast enough. He hunches his shoulders and starts toward Adam, hoping he can just slip by, hoping Adam doesn’t touch him, catch him, keep him here.

He steps on a shard of a plate, a long piece of porcelain, and it slips under him, sending him crashing into the refrigerator. He steps on something else as he tries to right himself, and everything _hurts_ , and he wants to just sink to the floor and _cry_ , but Adam’s there, still watching, arms crossed and chin lifted like he’s so much better than this shit. The worst part is, Adam’s right. He doesn’t need this shit. He should’ve just let Tommy go when he had the chance.

Tommy grits his teeth and forces his back straight, forces himself to stand his ground. He’s going to get through and get his shirt, and he’s going to get the fuck out of here. But Adam’s not moving out of the doorway. Tommy narrows his eyes and takes a deep breath and walks forward anyway, trying to push his way right past Adam. They don’t need to say another word. Adam should just let this happen. Let it end.

But of course, _of course_ , Adam doesn’t, putting out one hand and pushing him so he stumbles back, nearly falling over his own injured feet.

“Going somewhere?” Adam asks, raising his eyebrows. His voice is dark and dangerous, but Tommy knows it for the lie it is -- there’s nothing more Adam can do to him. Nothing more he _will_ do.

“Fuck you. Let me go,” Tommy spits, glaring up at Adam’s bloodstained face.

Adam scoffs. “Not a fucking chance. You’re gonna stay right here and listen to what I have to say. Because you asked for it. You _deserve_ to hear it, you little shit.”

“Get out of my way,” Tommy says, but it’s useless. Adam just comes into the kitchen, towering over him, and Tommy backs away, heading back across the room to the counter, to the cabinet with the bottles. It’s like they’re waiting for him, like they knew he’d be trapped. It’s a comfort, even before Tommy picks one up. The vodka he’d chosen earlier, with the cap already off. He brings it to his lips and takes a sip, forcing it down even though his stomach is already rolling. Adam follows him back, and Tommy waits for the command, or the yell, or Adam’s hand knocking the bottle away. But Adam just smiles, a slow, sharp smile, and pins him with a look, and starts to speak.

“Do you even realize how much _work_ it is to take care of you? I have other things to do, Tommy. Better things to do than stay home with you all day long. I have a life. A _career_. I can’t deal with all your issues on top of mine. It’s too much. I’m done babysitting you all the fucking time.” Adam cocks his head and leans closer, like Tommy is a dead thing on a pin under a microscope, just a curiosity to be examined. “A grown fucking man but you’d never know it, would you. So many tears. So _weak_ , Tommy, how do you stand it? How the fuck did you survive before me? I honestly don’t see it, baby. I can’t even picture it.” His voice twists into something nasty, something that makes Tommy flinch. “Is that why you went right from one girl to the next? Needed someone to pamper you? Someone to feed you and fucking bathe you? Tuck you in at night? Fuck, no wonder they all dumped your ass.”

“That’s not why,” Tommy mutters, but what does he know, maybe that was the reason. Maybe the cheating was just a symptom, and not the cause at all.

“So fucking needy. Jake always called _me_ clingy, but he hadn’t seen _anything._ Everyone knows you’re bad at relationships, Tommy, and I think I finally understand why. You’re not gay. You’re not straight. You’re not _anything_. You’re just a child looking for your mother. You’re thirty-three, Tommy. Time to grow the fuck up.”

“That’s not it,” Tommy says. “That’s not... I’m not like that.” But he can’t help feeling like it’s true. None of his relationships have lasted long. He’s heard all the reasons: you cheated, you lied, you drank, you lost interest. You weren’t enough. He just never expected it to be the same with Adam. “It’s different now.”

“It’s not different,” Adam sneers. “You’re just as fucked up as you always were. Nothing I do can change that. You know, everyone said I was stupid to give you a chance, with your history. But I thought it could work. I thought you’d be good for me, Tommy. But look at you now. You’re still lying, drinking, and fucking living off me. I was stupid, wasn’t I? I shouldn’t have bothered. And look at me now. Right there with you in the fucking gutter, a mess, like everything else you touch.”

Tommy puts the bottle to his lips and turns it up, swallowing as much as he can and not caring about what pours out of his mouth, coursing down his chin and his chest and burning all the way down, inside and out. He’s expecting Adam to stop him at any moment, expecting the word or the violent action that will make him put the bottle down. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Adam just leans closer, stares at him through the warped glass, and keeps talking.

“That’s right, baby, suck it down. Fixes everything, doesn’t it? If you can just drink enough, all your problems will solve themselves. Fuck, Tommy, just keep it up. Maybe this time, you really will find what you’re looking for at the bottom of that bottle.”

Tommy throws the bottle at him. It misses; Adam’s leaning close but Tommy’s uncoordinated, unbalanced, and he can’t focus. It shatters against the refrigerator and explodes into tiny shards, spilling vodka everywhere and making everything slippery, which just makes it worse, harder to stay upright. He dodges around Adam and stands at the door, looking back at him through the mess, and screams, “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll just fucking drink myself to death instead. That’s what you want, right? I bet now you’re regretting it, I bet you wanna kill me now, don’t you. You should’ve fucking done it, Adam, why didn’t you just fucking do it. I fucking begged. What more do you want? What do you fucking want from me, Adam? Huh?”

He doesn’t wait for Adam to answer before taking off down the hall, to the living room, searching wildly for his shirt. It’s here, somewhere, he’s sure of it. Somewhere. _Fuck_. He has to grab the back of the couch so he doesn’t fall over, and that’s bad, that’s not helping him get out. He needs his shirt, though. He needs to leave.

He finds his shirt wedged into the couch cushions and tugs it over his head. It takes way longer than it should to find the right holes, and when he finally manages to pull it down, Adam is _right there_ , standing in front of him and _glaring_ , huge and intimidating and clearly not messing around, not anymore.

“Don’t you fucking run away from me,” Adam growls, and reaches for Tommy with both hands. Tommy’s not fast enough to get away in time, and Adam grabs his arms, yanks him off his feet. Tommy thrashes against him, kicking and flailing his hands, but it doesn’t do more than throw Adam off balance. They tumble down onto the couch, and Adam lands on top of him, and suddenly Tommy can’t breathe again, but this time he _wants_ to. Adam pushes himself up and tries to catch Tommy’s wrists, pinning Tommy down with his whole body, and Tommy can’t get any leverage to push him off.

The flashes of light that reach Tommy’s eyes blind him, and he winces and turns his head to the side, facing the back of the couch, and everything feels off-kilter, like he’s going to roll onto the floor, like they’re on a boat on stormy seas. Tommy’s never spent much time on boats, not enough to know how to hold himself, set his weight, ride the waves. He feels sick, and there’s nowhere to go, not with Adam on top of him, and Adam catches his hands and slams his arms up over his head, bending Tommy’s wrists painfully against the arm of the couch, and Tommy just screams and screams and _screams_ , until he starts to think that maybe there’s no sound coming out and it’s all in his head. His throat hurts so much, and his back aches, and all the cuts on his chest burn where his shirt is pressed into them.

The pain steadies him a little, brings him back out of the fog, and as soon as he figures out where his hands are, he starts using them. He twists his hips violently, making Adam’s grip on him loosen, and once his hands are free he starts _scratching_ , nails digging cuts into Adam’s face, blood welling up in their wake. Adam roars, but he doesn’t back off, just chases Tommy’s hands down again and pins them even harder. Adam has to lean down to do it, and Tommy sees his chance in the movement, acting on pure instinct. He opens his mouth and _bites_ , teeth sinking into the place where Adam’s shoulder meets his neck. The sudden pain makes Adam’s legs twitch open, and in the next instant Tommy jerks his knee up, _hard_ , driving it right into Adam’s balls.

Predictably, Adam falls to the side, rolls of the couch and gives Tommy the time and space to claw his way off the squishy couch and lurch to his feet. “You can’t do this to me,” Tommy says, his voice hoarse now. “Not anymore. I can’t let you keep me here anymore. I’m done.” He turns around and thinks for a second about what he wants: he wants to leave. And... that’s about it. He can’t imagine what comes after that. In his head, it looks like blackness.

Then Adam’s hand is closing around his ankle, and Tommy crashes to his knees. “We’re not finished yet,” Adam says roughly. “You’re not allowed to fucking leave.”

“Let go,” Tommy cries, kicking Adam’s hand free. He feels around for anything to throw and finds a glass coaster on the coffee table. It doesn’t distract Adam even when it shatters against the wall. He pushes a lamp off the side table and it cracks, the lightbulb flashing once before going dark.

“Stop it,” Adam shouts. “Tommy, stop, stop this!” Over and over again, and Tommy keeps ignoring him until Adam grabs his arm just as he’s throwing one of the game controllers. It doesn’t go out the window, where Tommy’d been aiming, but into the television, which cracks right through the middle and falls off the wall, ending up in pieces on the living room floor.

The crash echoes through the room and makes them both freeze, breathing hard and staring up at the broken wreck hanging off the wall. Something in the air seems to have broken with it, the tension that’s been building and building since Adam first walked in the door, half a lifetime ago, and suddenly Tommy’s not angry anymore. He’s just...numb.

Adam lets go of his arm and stands, and Tommy uses the couch to push himself to his feet, keeps hanging on once he’s there to make sure he doesn’t go down again. Blood is starting to soak its way through his t-shirt, making it cling strangely to his chest, and he picks at it dazedly, watching as Adam runs one hand over his cheek, swiping the fresh blood away. He’s bleeding from the cheek and mouth and nose now, and a bruise is already starting to darken where Tommy’s fist landed. And underneath it all, Tommy realizes in a startling moment of clarity, he still looks beautiful. He’s the most beautiful thing Tommy’s ever seen. Tommy can’t stay. Can’t drag Adam down with him any more.

“It’s over, isn’t it,” Tommy says sadly. It’s all over now. They can’t get better, can’t recover from this.

Adam spits blood onto the floor. “Yeah, Tommy,” he says, with a touch of bitterness. “It is.”

And this time, when Tommy makes for the door, Adam doesn’t stop him. They keys are on the hook, just like always, and Tommy only hesitates for a second before grabbing the set for Adam’s Maserati. Adam hasn’t followed him to the door, and Tommy doesn’t want to look back. He can’t face Adam again. He looks down at his feet instead, at the bloody footprints he’s leaving, and puts his hand on the doorknob.

“I just wanted you to know that...the best part of my life,” he says, hoping his voice carries to the living room, “it was you.”

Then he opens the door and steps out into the dark of the morning, and even if Adam has an answer, Tommy will never know.

*

Adam stands alone in the suddenly silent house, surrounded by wreckage but not looking at any of it, and especially not looking at the just-closed door. He stares into nothing and lets Tommy’s words bounce around in his brain, there but not really sinking in. He can’t process anything else right now, can’t think. All he wants to do is crawl up the stairs and get into bed, and not come out again until the world has fixed itself. _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself with a rueful shake of his head. He really is turning into Tommy.

He’s just about convinced himself to move and head for the stairs when he hears his car start in the driveway. Adam knows that sound well, and it takes a moment for it to penetrate the fog of aches and pains that’s settled over his mind. That’s _his_ car. Tommy took his keys. Tommy doesn’t like driving on the best of days, and he’s drunk, and he’s taking Adam’s car.

Adam runs to the door and yanks it open, so hard it bounces off the doorstop. The Maserati’s pulling out of the driveway, and it’s slow, halting, but the gate is open and Tommy’s definitely not stopping. He can’t drive like this. He can’t even pull out of the fucking driveway without running over the grass. Adam’s frozen in the doorway; he can picture it clearly in his mind, going over to the car and dragging Tommy out of the front seat, making him stay at least until he sobers up, but Tommy’s _leaving him_ and Adam can’t force his feet to move.

And then Tommy’s gone, and Adam’s too late. The driveway’s empty and Adam keeps staring at it like Tommy’s still there, and he knows he needs to _do something_ , but his body just isn’t cooperating. He brings his hands up to run them roughly through his hair, and on the way, they brush the scratches on his face, still open and bleeding and fucking _stinging_. He hisses at the pain, and shakes himself, and his head clears a little, just enough to get him thinking again.

“Come on,” he mutters to himself. “Come _on_ , asshole, your car, your boyfriend...” _Ex_ \- floats through his head, a mean little prefix that he doesn’t have time to accept. “Your fucking responsibility. Come on!”

He turns and stumbles back into the house, needing his other set of keys, needing to go after Tommy and put a stop to this before anyone else gets hurt. This is _their_ shit. No one else should have to suffer for it. He scrambles through drawers in the kitchen, kicking aside debris carelessly -- he can’t remember the last time he used the other car, but the keys are in here _somewhere_ , he’s sure of it. It takes him far too long to unearth them from underneath a pile of batteries, and the moment he has them in his hand he’s out the door again, running as fast as he can, feeling the seconds slipping away.

When he turns the key in the ignition, Adam feels like he can’t drive either. Everything feels wrong, all the buttons and knobs and the angle of the seat. He’s still too dazed, too cloudy to really be on the road, but he’s not as bad as Tommy, and he needs to _find Tommy_. He needs to stop Tommy, bring him home. He looks at himself in the rearview mirror and frowns. “Get it together,” he mutters, and releases the brake.

It doesn’t take long to find the Maserati; Tommy didn’t get far, and he didn’t have much of a head start. Adam sees the taillights as he rounds a bend in the road and he speeds up, thinking about passing Tommy and pulling out in front of him, making him stop.

But the car’s already stopped, and it’s not exactly on the road. Adam pulls up behind him and jumps out without even setting the brake again. It doesn’t matter. The Maserati is half in a ditch and smashed against a tree, the hood crumpled and windshield broken.

“Tommy!” Adam cries, running around to the driver’s side. “Oh, fuck, Tommy, Tommy, please, Tommy...”

The door isn’t closed all the way; the frame is bent and there’s a gap near the handle. It swings open easily as soon as Adam touches it. Tommy’s still inside the car, and Adam thanks god for small favors, but he’s lying against the deflated airbag with blood all over his face and his arm twisted and caught against the gear shift.

Adam hears himself saying things, mostly Tommy’s name, over and over again, but he can’t think, he can’t even process what he’s seeing. He moves on instinct, pulling Tommy off the steering wheel and out of the front seat, and Tommy’s a dead weight in Adam’s arms, not helping or even moving at all.

“Tommy, baby, stay with me,” Adam says, dragging Tommy away from the car. There’s so much blood on his face, and Adam doesn’t know where it’s coming from, and he can’t tell if Tommy’s breathing or not. He pulls Tommy’s head into his lap and leans low over him, searching for breath, a pulse, anything. He wipes some of the blood off Tommy’s cheek and forehead. “I don’t know what to do, baby. I don’t know. _Fuck_ , Tommy, I don’t know.”

But he does know. He has his phone, he knows the number. Adam leans back and digs into his pocket, and he’s sure he’s jostling Tommy but he can’t help it right now, he needs to get his phone. The screen gets covered in wet, red smears with two swipes of Adam’s thumb to unlock it, and he can’t even hold it steady enough to press the right keys. He finally clutches it between both hands and dials as fast as he can, _9-1-1_.

The woman’s voice on the other end is horribly, obscenely calm, and Adam is hardly even aware of her questions or his responses, answering on instinct and never once taking his eyes from Tommy’s face. At some point, the voice tells him that help is coming but to stay on the line, and he lets the phone slip out of his hand, falling to the asphalt and shattering. How can she want him to keep talking when Tommy’s hair is stained red, and his arm is twisted like that, and his long, dark eyelashes are thick with blood?

Tommy is sprawled across his lap, and Adam pulls him closer, _tighter_ , as if he can press his own life force into Tommy if he can just get him close enough. He puts his lips to Tommy’s ear and whispers, harsh and desperate and pleading, hardly even stopping for breath.

“No, no, baby, no, you can’t do this now, you can’t, not after _everything_ , Tommy. Fuck, this is all my fault, and I never...Tommy, I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I promise, anything you want, just hold on, hold on for me...”

The words devolve into broken sobbing, and he’s rocking back and forth now, the world going red as the sun finally begins to rise. He’s not sure how long he sits there, but it can’t be very long. The voice on the phone said help was on the way. Adam can hear people trying to talk to him. It just feels like everything is moving in slow motion, like time stops while Tommy’s not responding, and Adam’s scared for it to start ticking forward again.

Far, far too long later, there are sirens in the distance, coming closer, and as much as Adam knows they mean help, part of him hopes they never come. Sirens mean an answer, harsh reality that there’s no coming back from. Better to just stay in this moment, this not knowing, when he still has a thread of hope to cling to, and Tommy warm in his arms, maybe for the very last time.

  


*


	3. Chapter 3

Adam has never felt so numb. Somewhere, distantly, he can feel the hard, uncomfortable hospital chair under him, and the heat of the coffee in his hands seeping through the thin paper cup, and the curious eyes of the other people in the waiting room -- but none of it matters much, not when Tommy’s only a few impassible doors away, hurt and bleeding and maybe _dying_ for all Adam knows. He’d tried to follow, almost punched an orderly in his desperation, but they’d just pushed him back and let a set of locking doors fall shut in his face, leaving him to watch through a tiny window in the door while Tommy was wheeled away. Adam couldn’t even see him through the mass of bodies around the gurney, and now all he can think about is how Tommy looked in the ambulance, so fucking pale and still, his delicate features dwarfed by the mask over his face. It hurt to look, but Adam hadn’t wanted to turn away, even as the EMTs worked on his own injuries, bandaging the cuts on his cheek and cleaning the blood away with practiced efficiency. He couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t tear his eyes away, wanting to see. _Maybe never again,_ his fucking morbid brain tells him. _Not alive, anyway. Because of you._

One of the stern-faced nurses gives him a look, and Adam forces himself to take a sip of his coffee, so it looks like he’s not in shock. He feels like he’s in shock, but he knows better than to let anyone else see that. He’s still dressed up, messy and bloodstained now, but in clothes that are meant to make an impression. An impression is the last thing Adam wants right now. He wants to disappear. He wants to go through those doors and see Tommy. When the cup covers the lower half of Adam’s face, the nurse finally looks away, and now that he’s not putting on a show, Adam doesn’t want to swallow. The coffee’s too watery and not nearly caffeinated enough to clear the fog that’s settled over Adam’s brain. It’s dense and thick like it’s trying to choke him from the inside, and if he can’t see Tommy soon, if Tommy... if Tommy dies, then maybe he’ll just let it happen. Maybe he won’t have a choice. Maybe he’ll deserve it, if something cuts off his air and forces the life out of him.

 _No_ , Adam thinks. _I_ definitely _deserve that_. His entire life is nothing but a series of bad decisions. Better to put a stop to the damage now. He puts the cup down on the floor between his feet and clasps his hands together, elbows on his knees. There’s blood on his hands, quite literally. It’s under his fingernails. It’s _Tommy’s_. Adam rubs his face, and then he can smell it, metallic and overpowering in his nostrils. He can’t escape it, not even when he wipes his hands on his fancy trousers, the ones Tommy once told him made him look even taller than he is. The clothes are smeared with Tommy’s blood, especially in his lap where he cradled Tommy’s head, and wiping his hands doesn’t do a thing.

He should clean up, but he can’t move. He rubs at his face again and wonders if there are streaks of red all over his cheeks and chin, or his nose where he keeps pressing his fingers. He almost hopes there are smears of blood, because he can’t tell if the coppery smell is coming from Tommy’s blood or his own. His nose feels wet and runny, but he’s been crying, maybe that’s all it is. He pulls a ruined sleeve down over his hand and wipes his face, but when he pulls it away, he can’t remember if it was already stained. He closes his eyes; he can’t think about it right now, can’t worry about himself when Tommy might be dead. He just wishes everyone would stop looking at him. He runs his fingers up through his hair and stares down at the coffee cup sitting between his shiny black boots.

His boots. His boots that Tommy was _licking_ only a matter of hours ago. Adam feels his stomach turn. He doesn’t understand how this _happened_ , how they got here. How everything spun out of control so fucking fast. Then again...things have always been a little out of control for Adam where Tommy’s involved. He thinks back to their first kiss, all those years ago, and his lips twitch into a rueful smile despite everything, despite the tears that are starting to fall again. Always getting him into trouble, that one. He closes his eyes and says a silent prayer, though he doesn’t know who he’s praying to, and he knows Tommy would disapprove. _Let him be alive. Let him keep getting me into trouble. Just don’t let him die._

Someone walks up to him, a pair of clean shoes, but Adam doesn’t look up. He can’t hold a conversation right now, can’t even keep his own thoughts on the right path. He thinks about telling the guy to fuck off.

“Mr. Lambert?” the man says. “You came in with Tommy Ratliff?”

Adam sits upright, then leaps to his feet. “Yes! Yeah. I’m his...I mean, I was...” Adam clears his throat. “I’m the boyfriend.”

The man’s wearing scrubs, and he has that calm, neutral expression that doctors must get classes on in med school. Adam can’t tell if Tommy’s okay or not-- _alive_ or not--just by his expression, and the not knowing is going to drive him crazy. Adam suffers through the painfully long preamble: the man introduces himself as Dr. Harris, and he recites a long list of injuries, words that bounce around in Adam’s mind for a while before making any sense. Things like internal bruising, and fractured ribs, and blood alcohol level. It seems to take forever, and at the end of it, Adam still doesn’t know anything more than he did when the doctor had started talking. He clenches his hands into painfully tight fists and tries to keep his voice as steady as possible.

“But he’s...is he...” Adam swallows hard and looks down at the man’s face. He wishes he wasn’t so tall. It feels strange. News like this should come from above.

Dr. Harris nods. “He’s stable. Unconscious, but we’re hopeful that he’ll make it through, barring any unforeseen complications.”

All the breath leaves Adam’s body in a rush. “He’s alive,” Adam breathes.

“He’s alive,” the doctor confirms. “The problem right now is that he’s still unconscious. We won’t know the extent of the damage until he wakes up.”

“But he’ll wake up, right?”

“In his own time. But he’s severely dehydrated and malnourished, and he’s lost a lot of blood. It’s likely he won’t wake up for a while. He needs rest. His body needs to heal itself. We’ve got him on some fluids, some vitamins and antibiotics, but he won’t bounce back immediately. There will be a significant recovery time, between the damage from the accident, the detoxing, and the... other injuries.”

“The what?” Adam asks. His stomach tightens painfully.

“There was extensive bruising all over his body, but... specifically around his throat. Very distinctive. Not the kind of injury that comes from a car accident.” The doctor pauses, letting his words sink in. “We have some questions for you.”

Adam feels a wave of panic rising in his throat. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t even thought how things would look to an outside eye. The word floats through his head uncalled for -- _abuse_ \-- and if he’s honest with himself, he’s not sure he can disagree with it. He would _never_ , not on purpose, not in his right mind. But he hasn’t exactly been in his right mind lately, has he? It’s tempting to blame it on the drugs, so fucking tempting, but that’s not right either. It’s _him,_ him and Tommy together, like mixing two harmless chemicals and ending up with something deadly. It would probably be best for everyone if he turned around and walked out of the hospital right now, a clean break. But... _Tommy._

“Can I just see him first? Please, I just need to see that he’s alive. Just a minute, and then I’ll answer whatever questions you want,” Adam says. The doctor hesitates, and Adam speaks again quickly, his voice breaking over the words. “I thought I would never see him again. _Please_.”

The doctor’s face softens, just a bit, and Adam holds his breath and waits. “I can give you five minutes,” Dr. Harris says, finally. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I just want to see him.”

“Come on, then. This way.”

Dr. Harris leads him through the locking doors and down a long, white hallway, finally stopping in front of a numbered door that looks exactly like all the others. Then he gives Adam a long, careful look, opens the door, and gestures for Adam to enter. Except Adam can’t move his feet. Tommy’s just beyond the threshold, and he can’t take the step.

“Mr. Lambert,” Dr. Harris prompts. He’s waiting. Tommy’s waiting, too. Tommy’s waiting for him, like he waited at home. Like he always waits for Adam. Adam goes into the room, and Dr. Harris closes the door behind him, giving them their privacy. He can’t keep making Tommy wait.

It’s been a long time since Adam’s been in a hospital room, but it’s easy to call up the memories. He thinks of his friends and their newborn babies, but that’s such a different atmosphere. Visiting a friend during cancer treatment--even that’s not the same. Adam’s never experienced _this_ before, and never for someone he loved as much as he loves Tommy.

The ugly fluorescent lights make everyone look pale and sickly, but Tommy’s deathly white against the sheets, drained of color and energy and _life_. Adam glances quickly back at Dr. Harris, who nods calmly, urging him on. Tommy’s chest expands slowly, but Adam’s not sure he’s breathing on his own. There’s all sorts of tubes and wires attached to Tommy’s bare chest, one down his throat, and all sorts of blinking, beeping machines to go with them. Everything cluttered around the bed, closing in on him...it dwarfs him under the thin blanket. Tommy’s so small already, short and thin--so fucking _thin_ , how did Adam not see it before?--and all the bruises Dr. Harris mentioned... all the ones Adam had seen, had _laid_ , stand out even darker, deeper now than they had at home.

There’s a row of stitches at the top of Tommy’s forehead, and all his hair is brushed over to the wrong side, like a mirror image of Tommy, like Adam’s stepped into some kind of alternate universe and his Tommy is safe at home, waiting for him. Adam wants to touch him, hold his hand, but his right arm is held straight in a pristine white cast, and Adam doesn’t want to cause any further damage.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Tommy. What happened? Baby, what happened to us?” Adam takes another step into the room, unsteady on his feet, and on the third step, he gives in and slides to the floor, close enough to touch Tommy’s loosely curled fingers. “What did I do?” he asks, though he’s not sure the words ever reach the air. They seem caught in his throat, like his breath. Like his heart. Tommy doesn’t respond to his touch, and suddenly Adam’s back in his kitchen, slapping Tommy across the face, pounding on his chest, ordering him to breathe.

Adam opens his eyes again to the hospital room and he’s crying now, sobbing, and he needs to be closer, needs to speak the words right into Tommy’s skin, so maybe he’ll absorb them and understand. Adam gets up off his knees and leans over the bed, pressing his lips to Tommy’s pale cheek.

“I’m sorry, Tommy, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, baby, please...” he whispers. “Just wake up, okay? You can do it, you can come back now, baby. I’m here.” Adam takes a deep breath and waits for a few seconds, hoping Tommy will blink or move or speak. Anything. There’s only silence. Adam’s voice catches in his throat. “I need you to come back. You need to hold on for me, all right? You’re not _allowed_ to let go. I need you to listen, Tommy. I need you to hear me this time.”

Tommy doesn’t respond, and Adam swallows and softens his voice, forces himself to take a few slow breaths. This isn’t about what _he_ needs. Not anymore. “No, I mean, it’s...baby, it’s all right. Go ahead and sleep. Rest. Get better. Just...don’t sleep forever, okay? I know you don’t think so, but you’re so strong when you want to be. Be strong now.”

He reaches out and brushes Tommy’s hair over to the other side, the side it’s supposed to be on. It doesn’t matter, but then again...maybe it does. Tommy looks more like himself this way. Maybe it’ll help him feel more like himself, too.

Adam pushes himself off the ground and into the chair next to the bed, pulling it close and taking Tommy’s hand again. It’s strange to hold Tommy’s hand without getting a response -- Tommy _always_ squeezes back -- but Adam doesn’t want to let him go. If he could, he would sit here all night, all day, as long as it took for Tommy to wake up again. He only has a few minutes left.

Everything seems to slow down around him, a stretched-out molasses moment when even the smallest things seem important, meaningful. The quiet, steady beeping of the machines at Tommy’s bedside. The too-sharp jut of Tommy’s collarbone. Dust motes dancing in the pale sunlight streaming in the window. He squeezes Tommy’s hand tighter as the seconds slip away.

Adam hears a throat clearing behind him, breaking the quiet. He turns around and sees Dr. Harris standing at the door with his clipboard, looking solemn. Adam narrows his eyes, about to turn back to Tommy, because Tommy needs him right now, when the doctor says there’s someone waiting for him outside, wanting to talk to him.

“What?” Adam asks, suspicious. If someone wants a fucking autograph... “Who?”

“Someone from the police,” Dr. Harris tells him calmly. “He wants to ask you a few questions about the accident.” Adam doesn’t move for a long moment, and Dr. Harris doesn’t stop staring at him. Finally, he says, “It’s time for you to go, Adam. Tommy needs his rest.”

Adam pushes himself to his feet and away from the bed, reluctant to let go of Tommy’s hand, but the doctor--the _policeman_ \--is waiting. Dr. Harris leads him back out into the hall, down a quiet corridor and not to the main lobby, where there’s a man with a notepad speaking to one of the nurses, jotting things down as she answers his questions. Adam hears her tell him that Tommy won’t be awake for a while and can’t be questioned yet. Adam’s throat seizes up. He coughs to clear it and that draws the officer’s attention, which Adam really, _really_ didn’t want.

The man introduces himself brusquely as Officer Powell, and Adam shakes his hand with thinly-veiled reluctance. He feels like the cop can smell the cocaine on him, can see it in his eyes or in the nervous twitching of his fingers. It makes him feel sick to worry about himself when Tommy is so much worse off, but still -- the last thing he needs to be dealing with right now is a drug charge on top of everything else.

Powell asks Adam about the accident, if he saw it, if he knew Tommy had access to his car, then asks if Adam knew Tommy was drunk when he took it.

“He took the keys,” Adam replies shakily. He should’ve kept the keys somewhere else, somewhere hidden--but it’s not like Tommy ever wanted to leave the house before. And when he did, he never wanted to drive. Adam clenches his hand into a fist, nails biting into his palm, and tells himself firmly that he couldn’t have foreseen this. He gives the officer a quick description of finding Tommy in the car, unconscious. That’s an image that will never leave his mind.

“And will you be wanting to press charges?” Officer Powell asks, barely looking down at his pad as he takes notes. His gaze is fixed on Adam, almost to the point of staring, and it’s making Adam uncomfortable.

He shakes his head. Tommy will have enough to deal with when he wakes up. Adam can’t imagine adding _more_ to that. It’s not even Tommy’s fault. Adam should’ve stopped him. He closes his eyes and imagines running after Tommy as he headed for the door, grabbing the keys out of his hand. It would’ve been easy. He should’ve fucking stopped Tommy before all this happened.

“I can’t--” Adam says suddenly, cutting off Powell in the middle of a question. “Sorry. I can’t do this right now. I’m going home.”

“Sir,” Powell says in a disapproving tone. Adam bites back the urge to snarl at him.

“You know where to find me,” he says. He can’t stay here. There are too many people, and Tommy needs rest. He needs _help_ , which Adam can’t give him. The best thing Adam can do for Tommy is to stay the fuck away from him.

He turns on his heel and starts walking, not even sure he’s going in the right direction, just wanting to get away from those questions, that accusing stare. Eventually, he makes it back into the lobby and just keeps going, right out into the sunlight and the cool breeze of the afternoon. He glares at the sky. Fucking LA and its fucking perfect weather. It doesn’t seem right today. It should be cold and windy and storming from dark, ugly-looking clouds. He lets himself fall back against the building and rubs his temples with his index fingers. It doesn’t help.

Someone comes out of the building and stands a few feet away from him, lighting up a cigarette. Adam doesn’t look, but he can sense a familiar stare, the one that’s a few seconds too long and means someone’s recognized him. He holds his breath and waits, glancing up at the newcomer out of the corner of his eye -- a young blond guy in nurse’s scrubs. The guy gives him a little nod and then looks away, going back to his cigarette, and something in Adam’s chest relaxes just a little. Luck, of course, but he’ll take it. He’s never been so glad to be unimpressive to a stranger.

He takes a breath and straightens up, attempts to put on a neutral face. “Hey, uh, sorry, but could I borrow your phone?” he asks. “Mine is...well, it got broken.”

His voice cracks a little on the last word, and he has to force back tears, the memory of his phone smeared with Tommy’s blood and slipping out of his hand far too clear. The nurse doesn’t look for a moment like he believes Adam’s attempts at being casual, but it doesn’t matter. His lips purse in sympathy and he reaches into his pocket without a word, handing over his cell. Adam takes it and turns his back, leaning against the building again, already dialing. He’s known ever since they got to the hospital who he wants to call. The phone rings and rings and rings for ages before Adam finally hears a voice on the line.

“Mom?” Adam sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. “Mom, something’s... happened. I need you, I need... Can you pick me up?”

His mother’s calm, soothing voice shushes him, murmurs for him to take another breath and tell her what’s wrong, where he is. He hears a sharp gasp when he says he’s at the hospital, and his first instinct is to reassure her that he’s fine, he’s not hurt, but how can he do that when Tommy’s barely clinging to life, not even conscious? Adam tries to follow her instructions and breathe through the lump in his throat, but it’s choking him, and he wants to just slide down the wall and cry.

“Tommy’s hurt and I need you,” he says, and the words sound gravelly to his own ears. “Please.”

She makes him promise to stay put and tell her the story once she picks him up, and Adam’s glad for the brief reprieve, the moment to compose himself before recounting all the shit he’s done tonight. He wonders how to tell her -- how to explain this to his _mother._ She’s never judged him before, never thought less of him, even when he and Brad were falling apart and he was taking it out on everyone else who got near him. But this...this is so much worse. He doesn’t want her to have to see him like this, and he doesn’t want her to lie and tell him it’s all okay. But he doesn’t know where else to turn.

After handing the phone back to its owner, Adam crouches down against the wall to wait, staring at the parking lot but not really seeing it. He’s not sure how much time passes. Nobody tries to talk to him. He finally sees Leila walking toward him, but he waits until she’s standing over him before getting to his feet. She hugs him and he feels awful. He can’t help but think about Tommy in that bed, not getting any comfort or love or support, and here he is, clinging to his mother when he doesn’t deserve to be coddled.

“Honey, what happened?” she asks urgently, holding him at arm’s length. She looks down at his body, his clothes--the bloodstains. Shit, he’d forgotten about that. He reaches up and touches the bandage on his cheek. “Are you okay? Where’s Tommy?”

“He’s sleeping,” Adam tells her. He’s not sure how to break the news that he hasn’t woken up yet since the crash. “We can’t see him. He’s hurt... Broken bones and stuff, I don’t know. But he’s not awake. And I need to go home. I can’t stay here. I need to go home, please.”

Leila nods. “Okay. It’s okay. Just wait for me right here for a second. I’m going inside to make sure they have the right information -- we want them to know who to call when he’s awake, right?”

Adam sniffs hard and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Have you called anyone else? Your father? Tommy’s mom?”

 _Oh._ “Shit,” Adam says, closing his eyes tight and scolding himself inwardly. “I wasn’t thinking, I’ve been sitting here all day and I didn’t even think. I don’t even know her number...”

Leila rubs Adam’s arm gently. “It’s okay, baby, no one can blame you for that. You want to wait in the car? I’ll just be in there for a second, then we can go home and get you cleaned up.”

Adam nods, and she hands him her keys. Then she hugs him again, tighter this time, and murmurs, “We’ll get it sorted out. We will.”

He sits in the overwarm car for an uncertain amount of time, so exhausted he can hardly think but too wired to fall asleep. He lets his head loll back on the seat and stares into the middle distance, not really seeing anything, just waiting. It’s strange, giving over control of the situation to someone else, but at the same time, it’s a relief. His decisions haven’t brought him anywhere good lately. Maybe it’s time to let someone else take the wheel for a while.

Leila comes back and drives to his house, and she doesn’t ask him any questions. She hardly even speaks at all. The ride passes in a blur, except for the moment they pass the scene of the accident. Leila doesn’t realize it; the car’s been towed and they’re moving too fast to really see the blood on the ground, but Adam sees the sparkle of broken glass. He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until Leila pulls into his driveway and turns off the car. Adam doesn’t get out of the car, and neither does she.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do you just want to sleep for a while?” she asks in a low voice. Adam’s tempted to just go into his room and pass out, but then he remembers the kitchen, the living room. Trashed. Broken glass and appliances, blood on the floor and probably on the walls too. Vodka spilled all over the kitchen. Adam feels sick.

“He was drunk,” Adam whispers. “We... fought. He left. And I followed him.”

“It’s a good thing you did,” Leila tells him. “You probably saved his life.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. Adam opens his door and slides out of the car like liquid, too dazed to be coordinated. His front door’s unlocked and he stops in the threshold, staring down the hall. He can almost see Tommy stumbling towards him, grabbing the keys off the hook and pausing at the door. Maybe he’d been waiting for Adam to come after him, stop him before he got in the car. He’d waited, hadn’t he? He’d always waited for Adam.

But no, he hadn’t, Adam thinks, not at the end. He’d said his goodbyes, and he hadn't waited for Adam. He'd really meant _goodbye_.

Adam hears Leila behind him and goes into the house before she has the chance to push him along. There’s a sharp intake of breath as she takes in the blood and glass in the hallway, but she doesn’t say anything, just moves around Adam and leads him to the dining room he hardly ever uses. Tommy didn’t like eating in here; he preferred the kitchen, or taking their plates to the couch, snuggled up together. And god, Adam’s already thinking about him in the past tense, like Tommy’s _dead._ But...in a way, in a fucking selfish way, maybe he is. Even if Tommy wakes up, he won’t be the same. Won’t be _Adam’s_ Tommy, the one he remembers. The one he still loves. Adam sits down in one of the chairs and lets his mother fuss over him, wiping his face and hands and massaging life back into both.

She goes into the kitchen then, and Adam can hear her moving around, sliding broken glass and debris to the side as she goes. His instinct is to leap out of the chair and pull her back out of the room, not let her see the mess they’ve made, but he hardly has the energy to even hold his head up. He waits.

She comes back with a cup of tea in one hand and a bowl of oatmeal in the other, blueberries sprinkled over the top. She sets both in front of Adam and takes the seat next to him, folding her arms and giving him a pointed look and saying, “Eat.”

He’s not hungry, but he knows that tone. Better to just force it down than try to argue with her, and anyway, once he starts, he realizes that he actually _is_ hungry. He tries to remember the last time he ate, but that requires sifting back through his memories of the last day or so, and he’s pretty sure that’s the worst idea he’s had in a while. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s hungry now, so he eats. His mom is a genius.

She doesn’t say anything else, and Adam doesn’t speak until he finishes the oatmeal. He says, “Thank you,” then hold the tea up to his lips, letting the steam warm his face. It soothes some of the numbness he’s felt all day, and it feels like he can finally be still and calm, even as his mind kicks into gear and starts spinning, playing out possible outcomes: if Tommy dies, if he just never wakes up, if he will ever want to see Adam again if he does wake up. He puts down the tea and covers his face in his hands. They’re clean now, but the sharp smell of blood fills his nose anyway, a sense memory he can’t force away.

“I don’t want him to die,” he says, and it seems obvious, a foregone conclusion. Of course he doesn’t want Tommy to die. But that isn’t what Tommy thought. Is that Adam’s fault? Did he do something to make Tommy think... He looks over at his mom and says, helplessly, “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

The story spills out of him then, along with a new wave of tears. It’s disjointed and incomplete, but he needs to get it off his chest, and Leila just sits beside him and rubs his back calmly and doesn’t make any horrified faces. She even kisses Adam’s cheek and pulls him against her chest, arms tight around his shoulders.

“And it’s just...” Adam says as he comes to the end of the whole mess, “I don’t even _recognize_ us anymore. Either of us. We’re not these people. We would never _do_ these things. But we did. I did. And I don’t know how that happened. I don’t know how to fix it.”

He drifts off into a shuddering silence, and for a while Leila doesn’t say anything. When she finally does, her voice is soft and solemn, but still kind. Kinder than he deserves.

“You’ve always been the type to get swept up in things, Adam. It’s who you are. I remember when you were five years old, in your first school play. You didn’t just want your part to be perfect -- you had to make sure everyone else did it exactly right, too. You take charge so naturally, and sometimes it’s a good thing. But you have limits just like everyone else. Sometimes you need someone to tell you no. And Tommy never has been very good at saying no to you, has he?”

Adam sighs. “So you’re saying it’s his fault?” he asks doubtfully.

Leila shakes her head. “No. I’m saying that you’re both wonderful people, but you have flaws. Weaknesses. Everybody does. It’s nobody’s fault.”

Adam shakes his head. He should’ve seen the problems and fixed them. That was his responsibility. Tommy was counting on him, and Adam let him down, and now they’re never going to get back to what they should have been. Adam ruined it. It’s too dangerous for them to be around each other now. He needs to stay away from Tommy, give him time to become a person again, but it's hard to even imagine not being with Tommy, helping him recover. He tries to envision a future without Tommy in it. There are no tears left, but he finds himself wanting to cry anyway. Tommy’s been with him since the beginning -- the only one left, now. He can’t even imagine being on a stage without him.

"It'll be okay," Leila murmurs, pulling him in and letting him hide his face in her neck. Her hands on his back rub warmth into him, and he doesn't ever want to move. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing more you can do about it tonight. Go get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if the hospital calls, I promise.” Leila kisses him on the top of the head and ruffles his hair, and Adam feels like a little kid again. It’s selfish, maybe, and childish, but it feels good to have his mom taking care of him again, just for a little while. He would probably still be at the hospital without her, driving himself crazy in a hard waiting room chair.

He presses his face into his hands. “Too tired to sleep,” he mutters, and that’s not quite right, but it’s close. Too guilty. Too fucked-up. Too _much_.

“You have some Ambien upstairs?”

“Yeah...that or something, I don’t know.”

“Take some. Better than keeping yourself up worrying. Okay? We’ll go back to the hospital tomorrow, and you need to be rested. You need to be there for Tommy.”

Adam pushes himself wearily to his feet. “Okay. Good night, Mom,” he says. It’s weird to say in the late afternoon light, but maybe he’ll get lucky and sleep all the way to tomorrow. Unconsciousness sounds good right now. He trudges into the living room, heading for the stairs, and it hurts to look at all the wreckage. The glass littering the room, the smashed TV. He’ll have to clean it up soon. He can’t leave it for his mom.

Something blinks, half pushed under the couch, and catches his eye. Tommy’s phone. Adam’s moving toward it, dropping to his knees to fish it out, before he’s even registered it in his mind. The screen, when Adam unlocks it, flashes the notification of a missed call from Adam, and then he sees the little _1 New Voicemail_ message.

He shouldn’t listen. It doesn’t matter. It’ll only make him feel worse.

He clicks.

The first thing he hears is the noise of the club, muffled and incomprehensible, and then his own voice, harsh with annoyance and... anger. “Jesus fuck, Tommy. What the fuck? Answer your phone. What are you doing?” There’s a pause, and Adam presses a hand over his mouth, trying to hold himself together. Why had he been so _angry_? “Tommy. Tommy, why aren’t you fucking here?”

Adam drops the phone down on the couch, where the cushions mute whatever he says next. He can’t stand to listen to it, can’t stand his own fucking blindness. No wonder Tommy wanted to get away from him. He couldn’t see any of this, and it was right in front of his face. He sees it now, and he’s horrified. He can’t look any more. He can’t _think_ any more.

He drags himself up the stairs and into his darkened bedroom. He should change his clothes and take a shower and wash his face, but all he can bring himself to do is unzip his boots and leave them on the floor. His collection of sleeping pills is is the bathroom cabinet, and he retrieves a bottle and takes it and a cup of water into the bedroom, setting them down on the nightstand before he crawls in under the sheets. He takes two right off, swallowing them down easy, and lets his head settle back, staring up at the ceiling and waiting.

Sleep doesn’t come. He doesn’t know how much time is passing, but it feels like hours later that he finally turns his head and looks at the empty side of the bed. If he’d done things right, Tommy would be here with him, snuggled against his side, warm and soft and unharmed. Instead, Tommy’s in a fucking hospital bed. He probably hates Adam now. He'd be right to. Adam turns over, his back to the vacant side of the bed, and stares at the glass of water. He tries to calm his mind, focus on just that one thing until the pills kick in and sleep takes him.

It doesn’t work. He can’t stop thinking about Tommy. When it’s not the accident, Tommy lying in his lap, covered in blood, it’s Tommy not breathing in the kitchen, so pale and still. Adam feels sick to his stomach. Is this how Tommy felt all the time, trying to wipe out thoughts from his brain with alcohol? Heaving a frustrated sigh, Adam pushes himself up on his elbow and grabs the pill bottle. He just needs a couple more, just to get him to sleep...but when he tips the bottle into his hand, nothing comes out. Empty.

He groans and flops back onto the bed, looking despondently toward the bathroom. There’s another bottle in there -- he’s sure of it -- but the distance looks impossibly far. His limbs feel heavy and reluctant, the work of the pills, but his brain is still flying, nowhere close to sleep. If he doesn’t get up, he’ll be laying here for hours, stuck in the dark and the quiet with nothing to keep him company but his guilt. He can’t do that. He’ll go insane by the time he gets up again.

Sighing, he drags himself out of the bed and slouches his way into the bathroom again. He doesn’t even bother to turn on the light, just reaches around in the cabinet until he feels the familiar round bottle and takes it right back to bed with him. Under the covers again, he shakes the bottle into his hand and throws back what comes out, not counting, not _caring_ as long as they fucking work. He’s taken this much before. He can handle it.

This time, he feels the effect almost immediately, a slow-creeping numbness that settles over him like a heavy blanket. He couldn’t get up now if he tried. He closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. Finally, finally, his head is starting to clear, thoughts blending and drifting and fading until there is nothing left but a thick, peaceful quiet.

Just before he sinks under entirely, Adam remembers something, Tommy’s voice threading through his head, telling him about how Adam’s hands around his throat made him feel. He remembers, and he smiles, and he wonders if this feeling, this sweet, secret place of powerlessness, is anything like what Tommy meant, how he felt under Adam’s touch. But before he can follow the thought through to its end, he is gone, slipping down and away from the world of thought and memory entirely, lost to the silence.

*

Adam wakes slowly, a piece at a time. There, an unfamiliar utilitarian ceiling. Here, a bed too small and uncomfortable to be his own. Somewhere nearby, a woman crying. But it’s the smell that finally makes him realize where he is, that cloying ammonia smell that’s only found in hospitals. He blinks. Why is he in the hospital? He didn’t fall asleep at Tommy’s side, did he? But he remembers going home, remembers his voice on Tommy’s phone, remembers...

“Adam?” He turns his head with some difficulty, and there is his mother, sitting by the bed. She’s crying, but her face is lighting up through it, a breathless look of relief. “Adam, baby, oh my god, you’re awake. I knew you’d pull through, I knew it.” Her face crumples. “Don’t _scare_ me like that,” she says, her voice muffled as she leans over him and envelops him in a tight hug. The weight of her body pulls on a plastic cord laying on the bed, and Adam looks down in dismay to see an IV hooked into his hand, taped up and tugging at the fine hairs there.

When Leila pulls back, she’s composed herself a little, and she wipes at her eyes with the back of one hand and gives a shaky laugh. “You have to be more careful, Adam. Sleeping pills and Xanax don’t combine, you know that.”

Adam freezes. “ _What?”_

“I came in to check on you and you were barely breathing. I swear, I thought you were gone for a minute. But you weren’t, and you’re not. You’re all right now. Because you didn’t mean to, did you? They kept asking me if I thought...but no. You’re not the type to give up.”

Adam tries to think back, closing his eyes. “I just wanted to sleep,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I must have grabbed the wrong bottle in the dark.” He swallows, and it hurts his throat. Leila must be able to see his discomfort, because she leans forward again, this time with a glass of water and a bendy straw. He drinks as she holds the glass, and as the water hits his mouth, he suddenly realizes how thirsty he is. He keeps drinking until she pulls the glass away, and already he wants more.

He winces painfully. Nothing hurts specifically, but he almost wishes something did. This is more like the worst hangover ever, a general sort of _rawness_ in his stomach and head and muscles, throbbing in his chest and behind his eyes. He’s a fucking idiot. Can’t even put himself to sleep right. No wonder things with Tommy went all...oh. _Tommy._

“Tommy, is he okay, have you heard--” Adam starts, but before he can finish, there’s a sudden burst of noise from the hallway, someone shouting. In the next moment, the door to his room is flying open, and the last person Adam wants to see in the entire world comes barrelling in.

“Still alive, you idiot? I hope so, because I’m ready to strangle your dumb ass with my own two hands.” Chad has a massive cup of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, and his earpiece blinks maddeningly, drawing Adam’s eye. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his face is tight with stress. He glares at Adam. “If this is your way at getting back at me for the other night, you should know I’m not amused. Been fending off the press with a fucking cattle prod all day. They know something happened, but they don’t know what. As much as I’d like to keep it that way, we’re gonna have to release a statement. I suggest going with exhaustion. Everyone loves a worker.”

Adam can’t even manage a reply. Chad and all his _noise_ is making his head hurt. He glances over at his mom, long enough to take in her horrified expression, then looks back at Chad. “I...” he says slowly. “I can’t...”

“You can’t what?” Chad snaps. “You can’t do your fucking job? You’ve made that clear.”

“Don’t you speak to him that way,” Leila says in a burst of tightly controlled energy. She stands up and meets Chad near the door, and for a second, Adam thinks she’s about to slap him. The thought makes him smile. “This is a _hospital_ , not your fucking office.”

“Well, we’d be meeting in my fucking office if he hadn’t knocked himself out and created _another_ scandal! Do you know who’s camped outside? The _press_. The media. The tabloids. That’s my business, lady, and I know what I’m doing. Idiot boy over here obviously has no fucking idea.” Chad turns to Adam and fixes him with a look of utter disdain. “Where’s your boyfriend? Or did he not survive the night?”

Adam’s entire body freezes; it feels like even his blood has stopped flowing. He’s cold all over, and he wants to see his mom’s face, reassure himself that Tommy’s still alive, but Leila’s shoving Chad’s shoulder, forcing him to the door.

“We can spin tragedy!” Chad shouts. “No one would blame you if you just tried to do what he did. Maybe I can get you a happy ending!”

“That’s it, asshole. Outside.” Leila’s arms are folded and she’s pinning Chad with a _look_ , a look that Adam recognizes well -- it’s how pretty much every fight he ever had with Neil ended. It still sends a shiver down his spine. “I’m not kidding. Out. Now.”

Chad gapes, and he looks like he wants to respond, but Leila just takes him by the arm and pulls him out into the hallway, shutting the door behind them. Adam watches through the glass panel in the door, his mouth open in something like shock. Leila’s shouting now, the words too muffled to understand through the door but the tone coming through loud and clear. She’s right up in Chad’s face, and though she’s a good foot shorter, Chad keeps backing up, one tiny step at a time. He looks like he keeps trying to sputter out a response, but she doesn’t let up for one minute, finally pointing back down the hall and keeping her arm outstretched until Chad finally relents, giving Adam one last shell-shocked look before turning and retreating the way he came.

Leila comes back into the room and settles herself in the bedside chair again with a loud huff. Then she looks down at Adam. “He’s done,” she says simply.

“Mom!” Adam protests, even as pride swells warm in his chest. “He was horrible, but he was good at his job. We still have to deal with the press, somehow.”

“We’ll figure it out, baby, don’t worry. The last thing you need right now is someone _toxic_ like that. Career comes second for a while, okay?”

“I can’t afford to--”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “You can. And even if you can’t, you need to anyway.” She takes his hand and rubs her thumb across his knuckles. They’re bruised, and Adam doesn’t know from what. He doesn’t think he hit Tommy with anything but his open hand, but--Jesus.

“Where’s Tommy?” he asks. “Is he...”

“He woke up during the night, long enough for the doctors to see how he is, but he’s sleeping now. He...didn’t _want_ to wake up. But he’s exhausted and underfed and the doctors decided to keep him under for a little longer.”

“Keep him--”

“He’s knocked out on pain medication right now, baby. He needs to get his strength back.”

Adam takes a breath, and he’s not even embarrassed when it shakes. Leila understands. “But is he okay? They said... Yesterday, they said he might have brain damage or something, and they didn’t know until--”

“He’ll be okay,” Leila says, shushing him before he works himself into a panic. “Right now you need to concentrate on you, Adam. You scared the shit out of me, and you are going to stay in this bed until the doctors say you’re all right, you hear me?”

Adam settles back against the pillow. “Yes, mother,” he says, meaning to sound sarcastic but not quite succeeding. He _is_ tired. It’s weird, he thinks, to be tired after being knocked out for...he doesn’t even _know_ how long, but he is. Leila reaches out and strokes his hair back off his forehead, and her hand is cool and soft and makes him slip that much closer to sleep.

“I’m going to step outside to call your father and Neil, okay? But I’m not going anywhere. Just sleep, sweetheart. I’m gonna be right here for as long as you need me,” she says quietly. Adam makes a soft noise of assent, but he’s already drifting again, the room going hazy and then disappearing as he falls back asleep.

*

Tommy doesn’t turn to look at the door when he hears it open. Nurses and doctors have been in and out for as long as he’s been awake and aware of them, and he’s tired of trying to meet their eyes and respond to their questions. He just lets them work, and they leave him alone, and he goes back to staring at the tree out the window. The TV was on for a while, but the flashing brightness of the screen gave him a headache, and he prefers the window now. It’s constant, and the leaves don’t move very fast in the wind.

When he hears someone pull over the chair and sit down, he turns his head. A mild panic settles in his chest; Leila is sitting calmly, watching him. _Studying_ him. Tommy reaches up with the arm that isn’t in a cast and combs his fingers through his hair. He must look terrible. He tries to cover up the stitches on his head and the bruise on his face, and it’s several minutes before he can bring himself to meet her gaze. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why she’s even here.

“Hey, Tommy,” she says quietly. “The nurses say you’re staying awake longer now.”

“Yeah,” Tommy replies. His voice sounds rough to his ears, but he can’t feel the pain of his throat, only the dryness in his mouth. “I still sleep a lot, though.”

“That’s all right,” she assures him. “That’s good. You need the rest.” She hesitates, and Tommy can see her turning her question over in her mind, working out how to phrase it. Tommy sighs and looks away. If it’s a question she’s scared to ask, it’s a question he won’t want to answer. She finally says his name again and asks, “Are you feeling better?”

“Better than what?” His arm doesn’t hurt, even though it’s clearly broken, and his chest aches, though not with as much intensity as he expects it should. But he feels sick, his stomach constantly in knots, and the light hurts his head sometimes, so it’s easier to just close his eyes and sleep. Maybe it could be worse, but Tommy thinks it’s already bad enough. He doesn’t want to tell Leila that, though. He doesn’t want her to worry. Before she has the chance to clarify, he asks where Adam is, if she’s here because Adam told her Tommy wrecked his car.

“He didn’t tell me to be here,” she says, looking concerned. “I wanted to see how you were.”

“I’m alive,” he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Her face goes tight and concerned, and Tommy can see the question in her eyes. He speaks again quickly, before she can ask it. “Is Adam with you? Is he avoiding me? I understand if he doesn’t want to see me.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to see you, baby? Of course he wants to see you.”

Tommy looks away. “They told me I stole his car. Crashed it. Sounds like a reason to me.”

“ _Tommy_ ,” Leila breathes. “Nobody cares about the car! We’re just worried about you! You were really hurt, and you wouldn’t wake up for so long. You scared Adam half to dea--scared him a lot, you know. He keeps asking me how you are.”

“So he did tell you to check on me,” Tommy mutters. “Where is he? If he wants to see me, why isn’t he here?”

“I don’t know that it’s... a good idea,” Leila tells him slowly. “The way things were that night, I think you and Adam need to... Do you know what I’m trying to say, Tommy?”

Tommy shakes his head. If Adam’s so worried about him, Adam should be here. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, and he wonders if he can blame the drugs. They aren’t messing with his head that badly, but pretending they are is better than just looking like an idiot.

“I think he pushed you too far,” Leila says. “And I think you should figure out for yourself what your boundaries are, and how far you’re willing to go.” She pauses. “He does want to see you, you know, when he’s better, but I told him it was up to you to decide.”

Tommy blinks. He’s heard wrong. He must have. Just the drugs fucking with him again. But still... “When he’s better? What’s wrong with him?” Tommy asks. Panic is trying to force its way up through the heavy drug-haze, and the warring effects in his body make him feel nauseous again. He closes his eyes and swallows hard, and when he’s regained a little bit of control, he looks right back to Leila. She has to tell him. He needs to know.

Her face is guilty as she speaks, and Tommy knows she didn’t mean to say anything. He tries not to be angry at her for that. Just trying to protect him. That’s what moms do. There’s a sudden, painful ache in his chest at the thought, and for a moment, he thinks he would give anything to have his own mother here. He hasn’t seen her in over a year. It’s a long flight. He fights back tears and shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on Leila’s words.

“He’s sick right now,” she says carefully. “He just needs some time to sleep it off and recover.”

“Why is he sick? He wasn’t sick before. Did I make him sick? I didn’t mean--”

Leila hurries to grab his hand and clutch it tight. “No, baby, no, it’s not your fault. It’s just been a long few weeks, and it caught up to him, and he’ll be fine in a couple of days, okay?” Tommy takes a deep breath and nods, and her hand loosens around his fingers. He likes the warmth, the tight pressure, but he lets her go and brings his hand back to his lap. There are tubes stuck in him. It’s probably weird to hold a hand with needles in it. He doesn’t blame her for letting go.

“I didn’t mean to make him crazy,” Tommy whispers. Leila doesn’t jump to Adam’s defense, so Tommy knows he’s right. He messed up so bad, and he hurt Adam in the process.

“He’ll want to see you in a few days when he gets better,” she says. “But you need to think about it first, Tommy. Think about if it will hurt you to see him. Do you understand?”

Tommy nods even though he doesn’t really understand. He remembers getting mad and running away, but he was drunk, and Adam wasn’t listening to him. Adam’s really the one who shouldn’t want to see Tommy, after the awful things he did.

“He wants you to know that he loves you, and that he’s sorry.”

“Doesn’t have to apologize,” Tommy says.

“He does, and he wants you to believe it. He’s sorry, Tommy. And I’m sure he’ll tell you that himself too.”

If that’s the only reason Adam wants to see him, maybe it’s better that they’re being kept apart. Tommy doesn’t need Adam’s apologies, and he doesn’t want to make Adam more upset. He knows he looks awful, broken like this, and if that makes Adam feel guilty, then Tommy’s okay with being hidden away. It’s not like an apology will make anything better, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Tommy knows his body will heal, trapped in here with all these doctors and drugs and machines, but there’s something broken between them that will never be whole again. It’s hard to bring himself to care about much of anything, knowing that.

Leila’s watching him carefully. “Honey, I know it’s hard, but let me worry about Adam right now, okay? I’d rather hear about you. You can talk to me, you know. I won’t repeat anything. I just want to know that you’re all right.”

Tommy’s eyes well up again, suddenly, taking him by surprise. “Why do you care?”

He expects her to say something else about Adam, about how he’s her son’s boyfriend. Was. Instead, she cocks her head and says, “Someone has to. You never did care enough for yourself.”

Tommy wants to roll over and bury his face in the pillows, away from her knowing look, but it’s impossible -- he’s held in place as securely by the needles and tubes and wires as if he’d been bound there. He burrows a little deeper in the blankets instead and whispers, “Not worth caring about.”

“Oh, Tommy...”

“No!” he says, louder than he means to. “I know what you’re gonna say, and you’re wrong. There’s nothing here worth saving. Just...go back to him and tell him to move on. Find someone else. Forget about me.”

“Tommy--”

“I don’t want to talk anymore, if that’s okay.”

It’s a moment before she replies. He glances up and sees her swallow. “That’s okay.” But she doesn’t get up from her chair and leave him. She scoots closer to the bed and rests her hands on the crisp white sheet, close to Tommy’s but not touching. “I called your mom,” she says, and Tommy’s heart leaps into his throat. As much as he wants her here, his mother doesn’t need to know about this shit. Leila tells him that he should call his mom himself when he feels up to it, and Tommy doesn’t know what that means. Just because his arm will heal and the bruises will fade, that doesn’t mean he’ll be up to anything. But he nods because Leila seems to be expecting a response.

“The doctors will be back soon,” she says after another few moments of silence. “I want you to follow their instructions, okay? They’re going to help you, but you need to tell them when things are wrong, and you need to listen to what they say. I really do want you to feel better, Tommy.”

“You don’t have to be so nice to me,” Tommy says under his breath.

Tommy feels Leila’s hand sliding under his own, curling their fingers together. He stares down at their joined hands and wants to cry. He wants his mom, but she won’t understand. Leila doesn’t understand either, but she’s here anyway. He turns his head back to the window, because wiping his eyes would mean letting go.

“Is it all right if I stay here for a while?” she asks. Tommy nods and Leila starts stroking his knuckles, rubbing over the edges of the tape holding the needle in place. It gives Tommy something to focus on, and he lets the worry and the fear slip away. The drugs make it easy to fall asleep, and all he has to do is let his mind drift. Then he’s gone.

*

Two days later, the doctors clear Adam to go home. He’s been going out of his mind the whole time, being forced to stay in bed and rest, Leila his only line of communication with anything outside his room. He gets dressed in real clothes for the first time in days, his own clothes that Leila’s brought from home, and it feels like putting his skin back on, putting _himself_ back on. Leila fills out his release paperwork, and then it’s done, behind him, like it never happened at all.

He hesitates in the waiting room as Leila is looking for her keys. “Mom...”

“Just a sec, I know they’re in here somewhere...”

“I can’t go yet. Not without seeing him.”

Leila stops hunting through her purse and gives him a look. “Adam, you _know_ what Dr. Morrison said. With everything that’s happened...it’s better for both of you to spend some time apart.”

Adam nods. Dr. Morrison is the hospital psychiatrist assigned to their sorry case, and she’s been surprisingly down to earth about it. Adam had liked her as soon as she’d talked to him for five minutes and cleared him from being a suicide risk. She’s also clearly right. They do need time apart. A _lot_ of time. But still... Adam hasn’t seen Tommy since he woke up, and that just feels _wrong_.

“I promise, I won’t try to see him after this. I won’t even text him. But couldn’t we just stop in for a minute? Even just to look in the window.”

“Adam, I told you everything.”

“And I believe you. But it’s not the same as seeing him with my own eyes.”

Leila doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but Adam waits her out, hoping she’ll see in his expression how much he needs to see Tommy. She finally drops her gaze and sets off down the hallway, and Adam follows two steps behind. They reach a room with a closed door, and suddenly Adam’s nervous. Leila’s told Tommy about Adam being admitted to the hospital; there’s no reason for the shame Adam feels now. He takes a deep breath when Leila sets her hand on the doorknob and nods.

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” she says quietly. “You stay here while I go inside and ask his permission. He seemed...torn about seeing you the last time I spoke to him. If he says no, we’re leaving.” Adam nods again, but she’s not done. “And if he does say yes, I’m coming inside with you.”

His face falls a little. “Mom, do you really think...”

“Yes. It’s necessary.”

“You trust me that little?” Adam asks, feeling a bit betrayed. His own _mother._

Leila sighs. “I want to trust you, Adam. But knowing what happened the last time you two were alone together? No. Not yet. So it’s this or we go home right now. Your choice.”

“Okay, yeah,” he says quickly. She gives him a stern look, then twists the handle and goes into the room. Adam stays out of sight, pressed to the wall beside the door, and listens hard for Tommy’s voice. He hears his mom say hello and ask how Tommy’s been feeling today, and if Tommy answers, Adam can’t hear it. He suspects Tommy just doesn’t answer whenever he can get away with it.

“Tommy,” Leila says slowly, almost like she’s talking to a child. Adam wonders if Tommy thinks of it that way, if it annoys him to be treated like he’s five. But maybe that’s what he wants, for everyone to take care of things for him. “I came to tell you that Adam’s going home today, and I wanted to know if you were up to seeing him? You don’t have to decide now, if you’re not ready.”

Adam closes his eyes and holds his breath and listens hard to the silence ticking away, waiting, waiting...

“Does he... _want_ to see me?”

Tommy’s voice comes around the corner, weak, almost too soft to hear, and full of doubt. Adam shivers, and his chest goes tight, and he wants to run in the other direction and barge into the room to reassure Tommy all at the same time. He does neither, just stands frozen against the wall, and waits.

“Oh, honey. He wouldn’t leave the building without coming to see you first. Yes, he wants to see you.” Adam can hear the smile in his mother’s voice, and a trace of a similar smile appears on his own lips. She’s too good to him. To both of them.

Tommy laughs, a weak little sound that quickly turns into a cough. When he gets his breath back, he asks, “He’s standing outside, isn’t he? He’s listening.”

“Probably,” Leila answers.

There’s a long pause, much too long, and Adam listens so hard that the pounding of his heart is almost deafening. Finally, Tommy speaks again. He sounds sad. He sounds _resigned._

“You can come in.”

Adam takes a deep breath and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans before peeking around the doorway. He holds in a gasp when he sees Tommy. Seeming horrified at Tommy’s appearance is the last thing Tommy needs from him. But it’s hard to focus on Tommy’s face when there’s so much wrong--the bruises Adam remembers vividly look even uglier, fading into a sickly yellow under the hospital room’s harsh light, and Tommy’s right arm is in a white cast, resting on a pillow. His hair is brushed to the wrong side again, and Adam’s fingers itch to run through it, put things right.

Adam walks fully into the room and stands awkwardly with his hands against his thighs, giving Tommy a chance to size him up the way he just did Tommy. He watches Tommy’s eyes as they track down and back up, taking in the casual clothes and the scrapes on Adam’s hands and face, and then Tommy looks away, out towards the window. Adam’s heart sinks.

“Hey, Tommy,” he murmurs. Leila stands up from the chair beside the bed and backs away, giving Adam room to take her place. She fades into the background, leaning against the wall, waiting. Adam touches the back of the chair and asks, “Should I sit down?”

“If you want,” Tommy replies. From this angle, his hair covers part of his face. Adam wants Tommy to look at him again. He needs to see Tommy’s eyes.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” Adam says quietly. “But the doctors... And my mom was telling me how you were. When you woke up. Things like that. I should’ve been here for you, I’m sorry.” It feels good to get that off his chest, but Adam may as well be speaking another language, from Tommy’s reaction--or non-reaction. He swallows down the flash of hurt--this isn’t about him--and tries again. “How are you feeling?”

Tommy lifts his left shoulder in a shrug and looks down at his lap. Adam considers this progress, because now he can see the slope of Tommy’s nose and the curve of his lips through his hair. “The doctors say I’m healing.”

“That’s good!” Adam says, leaning forward before he can stop himself. He restrains himself from taking Tommy’s hand. “That’s good, Tommy. I’m glad.”

“What happened to you?” Tommy asks, and now Adam can see most of his face, even though he’s still looking down.

Adam swallows hard. He knows what happened, and he isn’t even terribly upset over it -- more embarrassed than anything. But he hasn’t had to actually say it before. He supposes he’d better get used to it. Tommy’s just the first one to ask.

“Tried to take a second round of sleeping pills. Took Xanax by mistake instead. Ended up sleeping a little deeper than I wanted,” he says, trying to brush it off. It’s nothing compared to what Tommy’s been through. Nothing.

Tommy’s quiet for a moment, taking in Adam’s words. “That was my fault, wasn’t it?” he says, more of a statement than a question, like he already knows the answer.

Adam feels an echo of old frustration. It’s so _Tommy_ , to just assume like that, to put himself at fault even for something he was unconscious during. He doesn’t try to convince Tommy otherwise. He knows where that argument ends. Instead, he just shakes his head and moves on. Tommy will believe what he wants, no matter what Adam says. He always does.

“You really scared me, you know, when you wouldn’t wake up. I thought you were really gone, for a while.”

“Sorry for making you worry,” Tommy says, but the little wrinkle between his eyebrows tells Adam he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. “I didn’t want you to worry. I just wanted...” He trails off and Adam can almost hear the end of the sentence, how Tommy just wanted everything to be over. “I’m not worth the worry,” Tommy adds earnestly.

“Of course you’re worth worrying about,” Adam hurries to assure him. “You need people to worry about you, Tommy. And lots of people do. Me especially.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” Tommy replies. “You didn’t need to.”

Adam sits back in the chair, studying Tommy for a long moment. Tommy doesn’t seem to mind the silence. “Tommy,” Adam says, “just now when I told you I took the wrong pills, what did you think?”

“I thought you tried to kill yourself,” Tommy says bluntly.

“I didn’t. But you worried that’s what I meant, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I don’t want you to feel like this. You should feel better than this.”

“Don’t you understand that’s how I feel about you?” Adam says urgently. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, just like you don’t want anything to happen to me.”

Tommy shrugs and doesn’t reply. Adam can tell he’s not fully convinced, but he’s not sure how to argue any further without getting angry. He can’t let himself get angry with Tommy. That’s dangerous. He slips into silence instead, and lets it stretch until he’s sure his mother will break in and say it’s time for them to leave. She doesn’t, and it just gets awkward instead.

“So...I guess we’re probably not gonna see each other for a while after this. That’s what Dr. Morrison says, anyway,” Adam says.

Tommy’s eyes flick up to Adam’s face again. “She talked to you, too?”

“Yeah. I like her. She said some things...she makes a lot of sense, you know?”

Tommy nods slowly. “She says we’re bad for each other. That...I can’t remember how she said it.”

“That we bring out the worst in each other.”

“Yeah. That.”

Tommy holds Adam’s gaze for a long time, and Adam wonders if the words seem as true to Tommy as they do to him. He can feel tears welling up behind his eyes, and he blinks quickly and forces them back. He needs to get through this.

“I’ll understand if...if you don’t want to see me again. I mean...ever,” Adam says, voice shaking despite his best efforts.

Tommy’s eyes widen. It’s the most aware, most _alive_ he’s looked since Adam came into the room. “Why...no, it...it wasn’t _that_ bad, Adam, I don’t see why...”

Adam laughs in sorry disbelief and turns his eyes up to the ceiling. There’s no stopping the tears now. “I almost killed you, Tommy,” he says, too loud. Desperate, though he doesn’t know for what. He presses a hand over his mouth, like he can take the words back, make them untrue if only he can hold them in. But there are bruises on Tommy’s skin, and a haunted look in Tommy’s eyes, and memories in Adam’s head that he can never erase.

“No, no,” Tommy whispers, over and over again. He slides his hand across the sheets and holds it open, inviting Adam to touch him. “No. Adam, no. I wanted it. I wanted you to.”

That shocks Adam into stillness. He can’t even breathe. Tommy’s hand is still there, waiting for him, almost like he’s offering Adam comfort. Adam feels his mouth open and close, but he’s speechless, and nothing comes out. He watches Tommy’s fingers curl slowly, watches him drag his hand back, and Adam dives for it, catches Tommy before he can retreat completely. Tommy squeezes his hand and Adam finally sucks in a breath. All he can think to ask is “ _Why_?”

“I’ve messed up so much,” Tommy explains calmly, and suddenly Adam feels like the five year old getting a lecture. “I know how useless I’ve been, and how much I’ve taken from you, and nothing’s worth that, Adam. I pulled you down, and I fucked everything up, but it’s okay because I can let go now, and you can go on and get better. You don’t have to put up with me anymore.”

“What... Tommy... I don’t...”

“You can’t take care of me. You deserve more than a worthless alcoholic distracting you from your life.”

“Tommy, that’s not... I don’t think of you like that.”

Tommy shrugs again and pets the back of Adam’s knuckles, where they’re bruised and sore. “I hurt you, though. You should think like that.”

Adam shakes his head, but Tommy isn’t watching him now. He’s staring down at their hands, and tracing circles around the scab on Adam’s knuckle. Adam quickly wipes his eyes with his free hand and then covers Tommy’s, holding him tight.

“So... do you still want to...to...” he asks haltingly, unable to say the final word, clinging desperately to the hope that they can put all this behind them.

“I don’t know,” Tommy whispers. “I just don’t want to hurt anymore.”

“And it hurts now?”

“Everything always hurts,” Tommy says, giving Adam a disappointed look like he expects Adam to know this. Like he expects even a child to know this.

Something in Adam breaks, then...something he’s been holding back for a long time. He falls forward, pressing their joined hands against his face, and _sobs_ , loud and ugly. It feels terrible and embarrassing and _weak_ \-- he shouldn’t be doing this in front of Tommy, shouldn’t be laying this on him. He should be strong. He’s always the strong one. He can handle...

But no. _No_. It’s too much, and for the first time in a long time, he admits it to himself. He can’t handle this. He’s not strong enough. In the end, he gives in and lets himself cry. Eventually, there are words through the tears, words he’s said so often to Tommy they’re beginning to lose their meaning. Three little words that, in a perfect world, would be _I love you._ They’re not.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Tommy, so fucking sorry.”

He doesn’t know how many times he says it, or how long he cries. Eventually, he feels a small hand on his back, and hears his mother’s voice saying his name. It brings him back to himself a bit, and he quiets a little, sitting up again and wiping uselessly at all the wet places on his face. Leila presses a box of tissues into his lap, and Adam cleans himself up as best he can without a mirror. Tommy watches him the whole time, never looking away for a second. His eyes are still dry, his face impassive. It feels like a rejection. Like an ending.

Finally, Adam sniffs and speaks one more time, raw and honest. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you.”

“I thought we already said goodbye,” Tommy replies quietly.

Adam reaches forward and touches Tommy’s hand again, hoping the connection will let his words sink in. “Tommy, will you promise me something, please? Will you take care of yourself?”

Tommy turns a hopeful gaze on Adam, and it looks so familiar that it hurts deep in Adam’s chest. “For you?”

“No,” Adam whispers. “For _you_.”

The quiet stretches again, and this time Leila does interject. “Adam, it’s time to go. We need to get home, and Tommy needs his rest.”

Adam sighs and nods, and looks at Tommy one more time. He feels like he should say something, but there’s nothing else he can think of, nothing else to say, like he’s empty. Used-up. Done.

Leila puts her hand on his shoulder, and he stands, turns, and walks out of the room without giving himself a chance to regret it. Behind him, he hears Leila saying goodbye to Tommy, telling him to rest, get better, stay in touch. Then she comes out of the room and closes the door behind her, and just like that, it’s over.

He knows what comes next. They leave the hospital. Drive home. Go on with life. But he’s frozen again, like part of him is still stuck in that room with Tommy. Like maybe it always will be.

“Oh, baby,” Leila says, and wraps him up tight in her arms. Adam buries his face in her shoulder, still crying. A distant part of him feels bad for getting her shirt wet, but most of him doesn’t care. He needs her right now, maybe more than ever, the one person in his life who will hold him and let him cry and not let go until he’s ready.

She speaks quietly but firmly, making sure he can hear. “He’s sick, sweetheart. He needs help, and we’re gonna make sure he gets it. There’s nothing more you can do for him right now.”

Adam knows she’s right, but it’s hard to let go of the responsibility. He can’t help but think that he should’ve seen this, fixed it before it got so bad, even though the logical part of his mind admits that he can’t _fix_ a person like Tommy. All he can do, all he can _really_ do, is commit to not making it worse. And that means going home. It means moving on.

He takes a step back, and Leila’s arms fall away. “Ready?” she asks, watching him carefully.

Adam nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He leaves the hospital with Leila at his side, face covered in blackout sunglasses that not even the brightest camera flash can penetrate, and he doesn’t let himself look back.

Adam has a cleaning service, someone to come in every two weeks and clean the stuff he doesn’t think about with such a big house, but he refuses to leave this mess for someone else. He doesn’t even want anyone to see it. His mother helps him pick up the broken glass and scrub the blood off his furniture and floors, and while the image of his house so soiled will never leave his memory, it looks almost like it never happened.

Leila also helps him communicate with his label and sets things in motion for firing Chad. She doesn’t schedule interviews for a new manager, though, and tells him with a firm look that he should be taking some time off, and to let other people worry about his career for a while.

It’s the tour that really kills him. Dates have already been booked, tickets bought. He’s never even canceled one show before. He argues for a long time, and finally Leila backs her stance off from canceling to ‘indefinitely postponing.’ He’s still not happy, but in the end, he has to admit that she’s right. They could probably pull it off. Hire a new guitarist. Push themselves through extra hours of rehearsals. Get through it. But, as Leila points out to him, he doesn’t want to just _get through_ a tour. His fans deserve more from him, and he just can’t give that to them right now. Better for everyone to wait. Some of them understand. Some don’t. Mostly, he puts his head down and lets Leila deal with talking to the public. It feels a little bit like hiding, but maybe he deserves to hide a little bit. Just for a while.

He doesn’t even let many people see him. His dad comes by, and Sutan and Danielle, but Adam directs everyone who calls to wish him well to go visit Tommy in the hospital. He’s fine, or he will be once he’s had time to decompress; Tommy’s the one that needs the support. He needs to see all the people who care about him -- who love him. Maybe it will help.

In the meantime, he has things to keep him busy. Leila doesn’t let him mope around the house for long; she brings in a stack of paperwork and a to-do list that’s three pages long. Things to get him back on track, and things to take care of Tommy, medical forms and legal forms, all the things he can’t take care of for himself. He goes pale when he sees the report on Tommy’s blood alcohol level the night of the accident, and he and Leila glance at each other for a long moment before shuffling papers and looking up lawyers. No way he’s getting off completely, but at least they can get him a good defense. Adam can’t imagine Tommy in jail right now. He _can’t_. He may not be allowed to see Tommy, but Adam can at least try to take care of him from a distance.

He doesn’t let himself remember much, at least during the day. The dreams are another matter, and more often than not he wakes up near tears. He stays in bed for a few moments, sometimes, looking over at the side of the bed where Tommy used to sleep. And then he gets up and goes back to work, back to _fixing_. Making sure Tommy has a life to come back to.

*

At first, Tommy doesn’t want visitors. He doesn’t turn anyone away, but their visits don’t exactly make him feel better, either. The drugs mess with his sense of time, and one person seems to flow right into the next, though he knows that can’t be right. He sleeps a lot in between, and an uncertain amount of days pass as his body slowly heals and his brain mostly stays quiet, even when he’s awake. It’s easy to not think about anything, just let the nurses check his vitals and respond to Dr. Morrison’s questions with one-word answers and go back to sleep. He’s too numb to be bored.

Mike comes with his girlfriend, looking upset but not exactly surprised. Mia and Chantala happen to come at about the same time, and he almost enjoys that visit, as they talk to each other almost as much as they try to talk to him, and he likes the easy sound of their chatter floating over his head. Sutan comes with a makeup kit in hand and keeps up a steady stream of LA scene gossip as he colors in Tommy’s face, and Tommy wants to cry when Sutan shows him the finished product in the mirror -- he almost looks like his old self again. He leaves the makeup on as long as the nurses will let him, and it’s the best day he’s had in the hospital yet.

Isaac comes twice. He is the first visitor Tommy has after Leila and Adam, and Tommy can’t hide his shock. Isaac had only ever tried to help him, and all he’d gotten was Tommy at his very worst. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want to see Tommy ever again. Tommy says as much, but Isaac just shakes his head and says something about friendship, _real_ friendship, and sits by his bed for a very long time. The second time, he brings Sophie, who hugs Tommy sweetly and smiles and whispers something in his ear that makes him smile, too, for the first time since the accident. Since a long time before.

And, at some point during those nameless days, Tommy opens his eyes to see his mother sitting next to his bed, tired and jet-lagged and red-eyed from crying. He cries too, then, and they don’t say much. He falls asleep again with his hand in hers, and sleeps restfully for once, free of nightmares or memories almost as bad.

By the end of the week, Tommy’s used to people tapping on his door and peeking in, asking permission to enter and talk to him. But they’ve all been his friends or his family, all people who he’d visit, had they been in the hospital instead of him, so it’s a surprise to see one of Adam’s ex-boyfriends slipping in and shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Tommy?” Brad asks, and he looks nervous, or maybe afraid. Tommy can’t imagine Brad being scared of _him_ , unless he just looks that terrible and broken. “Do you remember me? We met a couple times a few years--”

“I remember you,” Tommy murmurs. Adam keeps in contact with his exes--except for Jake, who Adam doesn’t even like thinking about--and Brad is hard to forget. He’s small and pretty and more glamorous than Tommy could ever hope to be, but Tommy knows he shouldn’t compare himself to Brad--or Jake, or any of the others--because Dr. Morrison says it’s unhealthy, so he lets out a long breath and clears his mind. “Why are you here?” he asks instead.

“I wanted to see how you were. Is that okay? I can leave if--”

“Whatever. I just don’t know why you’d care.”

Brad comes over to the chair beside the bed and sits down, perched on the edge with his back straight and his hands folded in his lap. He gives Tommy a twisted grin, an eyebrow lifted in amusement, and says, “Well, now that we’re on the same page, I figured we could bond. The pool of people in my position is annoyingly small.”

“Your position?”

“I want to have someone to gossip about Adam with,” Brad says brightly. “And if you want someone to talk to, then... you can talk to me. I’ve been there, I’ve dealt with him.”

Something inside Tommy balks at the idea of gossipping, talking about Adam behind his back, but another part of him unwinds as a feeling of relief spreads through his body. Maybe he does need to talk to someone. Brad knows Adam in a way that not many people do, and if he wants to talk, maybe Tommy should let him. He finds himself nodding, and Brad smiles at him and just starts _talking_. He doesn’t really give Tommy a chance to answer, but that’s okay, because Brad is fun to listen to, and Tommy doesn’t have to concentrate very hard.

Eventually, Brad says something about Adam’s _type_ , and how similar he and Tommy are, and Tommy wants to protest, but Brad’s right about some things, anyway.

“I mean, come on, you knew he was attracted to you from the beginning, right? Tiny, pretty boy like you? He loves that shit. Makes him feel all masculine and powerful or whatever when he can pick you up and toss you on the bed. He totally did that to you, didn’t he? I bet he did.”

“Sometimes,” Tommy admits. “He liked being bigger than me, I think.”

Brad laughs a little and rolls his eyes. “He’s such a caveman about it. Did he like to pull your hair, too?”

“ _I_ liked it when he pulled my hair,” Tommy says. His stomach twists, and he’s nervous now. Brad won’t understand. He can’t understand this, and now they can’t talk anymore because Tommy’s a freak that actually begged for Adam to pull his hair and hit him and choke him.

Brad’s expression suddenly softens, though his smile doesn’t fade. “I did too,” he says. “And that’s okay, Tommy. It’s just...” Tommy stares at him and watches him go through a whole host of expressions, and Tommy doesn’t know what they mean, what Brad’s thinking. What he’s about to say, because it’s obvious Brad wants to say more. Tommy holds his breath and waits.

Brad finally settles on something like sadness. Tommy doesn’t understand it. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you,” Brad says.

“What? Why would you need to...”

“He came to talk to me about you one day -- did he ever tell you that? He was...I think he was overwhelmed. He’d never been with someone quite as submissive as you before.” Brad looks like he wants to touch Tommy, hold his hand, but Tommy doesn’t reach for him. He’s not sure what to think, and Brad isn’t making much sense. He opens his mouth to ask what Brad means, but Brad’s already talking again, and Tommy just shuts up and listens.

“That’s the word for it, by the way. I don’t want to assume, but it seems like maybe you didn’t know. And that’s okay. Adam didn’t really know either, when I met him, and it was kind of a learning process, you know? We worked through it. But he didn’t do that with you, and he should have, and I _knew_ he didn’t. He wasn’t doing things right with you, but I didn’t stop him, even though I knew he was hurting you... I’m so sorry, Tommy, I should’ve...” Brad trails off and sighs heavily. “I just feel like it’s my fault he didn’t talk to you. When he was with me, I knew about this stuff, and he didn’t. So maybe he thought you knew too.”

Tommy shifts on the bed and closes his eyes. He can’t wait to get up and walk around. He’s never been so stiff in his life. “So...you’re talking about like, S&M shit, right? Like in porn?”

Brad laughs out loud. “Sort of. Yeah.”

Tommy shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that. It was just...rough sex. People do that all the time.”

Brad’s eyes slink up Tommy’s body and come to rest on the fading bruises still ringing his neck. “It’s none of my business, and you tell me to fuck right off if you want to, but I think it was a little more than just rough sex. And I could maybe explain some things to you if you want me to. There’s...there’s more to it than you might think. Definitely more than you see in porn.”

“Like what more?” Tommy asks.

“Like... rules. There are rules, and there’s different ways of doing it, but some things are for safety. That’s what Adam should’ve talked to you about, because he wasn’t being safe. The things he did with you, he should’ve asked you first, to make sure you wanted it.”

“I wanted it,” Tommy says. Nobody understands that.

But Brad says, “I get that. I liked it when he put his hands around my neck too. But we talked about it, and I asked him for it, and I had a safeword, so I could make him stop if it was too much.”

“It wasn’t too much.”

“You almost died. Yeah, it was.” Brad pauses, thinking. “It was definitely too much for Adam. I think you both wanted different things, and Adam should’ve realized that and stopped a long time ago.”

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s not Adam’s fault. You don’t understand.”

Brad sits back in his chair and folds his arms. “So make me understand.” Tommy gives him a skeptical look. “I’m serious. I wish someone had been there to talk to me, when I was first working this stuff out. I want to get it. Please.”

“It’s just...” Tommy bites his lip, wondering how to say it. “It wasn’t always about sex. That’s what makes me so fucked up. I wanted him to tell me what to do _all the time._ People don’t do that. _Adults_ don’t do that. Adam didn’t do that. He just liked the sex, and it wasn’t enough for me. I kept asking for more, and he tried, but...it was never enough. Even at the end, it was never enough.” Tommy covers his face with his good hand. He suddenly feels naked, exposed, and he doesn’t want Brad to see him like this. “God, I’m so fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Brad says softly. “You’re not fucked up, Tommy. You’re no more fucked up for being this way than Adam is for being gay. It’s just something you’re born with. That’s one thing Lady Gaga got right.”

“But I’m not supposed to--”

“It doesn’t matter what people think you’re _supposed_ to do. It’s just about what works for you. Rough sex works for a lot of people, and so does some powerplay, or some painplay. It’s not just _you_ that wants it. You may not be able to see it, but people do this. Real people, who have real, successful adult lives. It doesn’t mean you’re fucked up or weak or wrong. You’re just different. Who isn’t?”

“But you don’t want someone to take control of your whole life,” Tommy mutters. “Adam doesn’t want that.”

Brad shrugs. “So you’re different from me, too. And you’re definitely different from Adam. But there are _always_ people who like what you like. Lots of people have relationships like that, Tommy. A full-time, committed thing, with just one person in control. It’s okay to want that, I just want you to do it safely. Negotiated, so you know what to expect, and the other person knows how to give you what you need. There are ways to do it right.”

Tommy’s quiet for a long time, thinking. Processing. The idea is so new, and _talking_ about it openly like this...it’s very strange. New words. New ways of thinking. It’s a lot to take in.

“If there’s just one thing I hope you remember, though, it’s this,” Brad says, leaning forward. His face is more serious than Tommy’s ever seen it. “Whatever you do, however you get off or choose to live your life -- it should always make you feel _better._ It should never make you feel worse. Subbing--submitting to someone else--it isn’t about giving yourself up. It’s something you do _for_ yourself, because it’s what you like, or what you need. And it’s easy to let yourself disappear in it, but with the right person? It can be amazing. On _both_ sides.”

“Have you had that?” Tommy asks. He’s more than curious; he’s hopeful. Brad makes it all seem so _normal_.

Brad gives him a sad little smile. “I had that with Adam. A couple times since then, but... Never quite like that. We were _together_ in a way I haven’t been with very many people. Partners, you know? Not just boyfriends.”

Tommy can’t remember ever feeling like that with any of his girlfriends, and with Adam... Well, with Adam, he was never in control. Never a _partner_. “He didn’t want the same things I wanted,” Tommy says, and even though Brad’s been telling him that for twenty minutes, it’s only now sinking in.

“I’m not saying he hasn’t changed, but he’s never been in that deep. I don’t think he can give you what you need,” Brad says carefully. “I don’t mean that it has to be over...”

“No,” Tommy says firmly. “It’s over.”

“And the band? You think you’ll still want to play with him when he gets back on his feet?”

Tommy hasn’t really even thought about work yet, especially since he can’t even move his right arm. It seems so far away, like a different life, none of his business at all. But Brad’s right. It’s his job, and if that gig (so strange to call it that when it’s been his entire life for so long) is over, he’s gonna have to find something else. He thinks back to what his life was like before auditioning for Adam and groans. He can’t go back to call centers and tanning salons, not now.

“I don’t even know if I _can_ play any more. Or if he’ll want me if I can,” Tommy says.

“But what do _you_ want?” Brad asks, insistent.

Tommy shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He doesn’t.

They chat a while longer, about nothing much, until Tommy starts to get tired. Brad’s gathering his things to leave when Tommy blurts out what’s been nagging at his mind for a long time, something he hasn’t admitted to any of his other visitors. Something he maybe didn’t even admit to himself until just now.

“I still love him.”

“Of course you do,” Brad replies lightly. “I wish I could tell you it fades, but... But I think you could be friends with him again, if you wanted to.”

“You think so?”

“I stayed friends. Sometimes it’s hard, but,” Brad pauses to give him a wink, “I think it’s better this way. It’s a good challenge. And it’s worth it in the end.”

Tommy’s still thinking about his words long after he’s gone, staring up at the ceiling and wondering. About different, and about partners, and about worth it.

*

Isaac and Sophie don’t give Tommy a choice about where to stay when he gets out of the hospital, and they come to pick him up on the day he’s released with fresh clothes retrieved from Adam’s house and smiles on their faces. Isaac helps him out of bed and gets him steady on his feet, and they work together to get Tommy’s clothes on around the bulky cast still attached to his right arm. Sophie fills out paperwork and listens to Dr. Morrison go on and on about Tommy’s supervision, and his court dates, and his appointments with his new therapist, nodding and asking questions and writing everything down in a little notebook. The doctor lowers her voice when she talks about keeping things like car keys and knives locked up, but Tommy hears anyway, blushing deep and avoiding Isaac’s eyes. He’s so much trouble. He doesn’t deserve friends this good.

“Tommy.” Dr. Morrison interrupts his train of thought. “Remember what we said about negative self-talk? I can see you doing it. These are your friends, and they’re happy to help you.”

Tommy nods, and Dr. Morrison crosses the room to take him by the shoulders and look him in the eye. “Keep working at it, okay? It’s going to take some time, but I know you can do it. And you can call and talk to me whenever you want,” she says, taking a business card out of her pocket and slipping it into his hand.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the doctor nods and turns away.

After all the check-out procedures are done, and all the papers are signed, Isaac and Sophie lead him to the elevator, which opens to a level of the parking garage. They both step out, and suddenly Tommy’s scared to follow them. He doesn’t particularly like the hospital, but it was nice to have a private room, somewhere he could just sit and rest and not leave. And now he’s leaving.

“Tommy?” Sophie asks, holding her hand out to him. “We’ve made up the guest room for you. If you’re tired, you can just...”

“Come on, Tommy, let’s get out of here,” Isaac breaks in with a smile. Tommy takes a deep breath and steps out onto the cold concrete.

He falls asleep in the car, carefully propped against the window so there’s no uncomfortable pressure against his tender ribs, and so the seatbelt doesn’t cut into the sore places on his throat. He didn’t even mind that Sophie reached around him to buckle him in like a little kid. He blames the tiredness on the drugs.

He sleeps all the way home, and wakes up to Isaac shaking him softly. “Come on. Inside. Sophie’s making dinner. We figured you were probably tired of hospital food.”

Tommy groans and stretches as much as he can without aggravating any of his various hurt places. “You have no idea,” he says, smiling a little at Isaac. “I think some of it actually was cardboard.”

Isaac laughs and takes Tommy’s good arm to help him up out of the car. “No cardboard here. How do fish tacos sound?”

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “I really, really don’t deserve you.”

“Tell Sophie that, she’s cooking!”

They make their way inside, slowly, and Tommy almost wants to cry again when he sees his things all unpacked in the guest room, clothes in the dresser and guitar leaning against the bed and even some of his posters on the walls. Isaac puts one arm around his shoulders and hugs him close.

“This is your home now, for as long as you need it to be. We wanted you to feel welcome,” he says.

Tommy ducks his head and rests it against Isaac’s shoulder. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Sophie comes down the hall, wiping her hands on her jeans, and she laughs when she sees them. “I knew you couldn’t wait to start cuddling,” she teases, and Isaac turns his head and sticks his tongue out at her.

Tommy chuckles, feeling more at home and comfortable than he has in a long time. Isaac turns back to face him, already digging in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and holds it up slowly, like he’s trying not to startle Tommy.

“We need to commemorate the occasion,” he says. “First day of the rest of your life.”

Tommy bites his lip and reaches up to make sure his hair is covering the stitches on his forehead. “Do I look okay?”

Sophie ducks into the frame for a second, tugging the collar of Tommy’s shirt so it sits flat against his chest, then she stands back and nods at him. “Perfect.”

Tommy ignores the little voice in the back of his head that says Sophie’s lying to him and plasters on a smile so Isaac can snap the picture. _They’re my friends, and they’re not going to lie to me_ , he tells himself firmly.

Isaac holds out his phone and asks, “You wanna see?” and Tommy doesn’t want to see himself, not really, but he can’t resist. He reaches out and takes the phone, and turns it to see the picture.

He stares for a long time. Then he closes his eyes, and tries to push everything in his head away, all the insecurities and scars and baggage, and when he opens his eyes again, he really _looks_ , trying to see just what is really in the picture and nothing else.

He is very thin, and very pale, and his hair is a mess. But his eyes are bright and aware, and his smile looks genuine if hesitant, and all in all...it’s not so bad. He glances up at Isaac.

“Can I send it to Adam?” he asks. Isaac and Sophie both get the same unsure look on their faces, and Tommy almost laughs. They’re the type of couple he had hardly believed existed before actually meeting them, together so long they’re even starting to mirror each other’s expressions. “Just so he knows I’m out of the hospital, and that I’m okay. I think he should know that.”

Finally, Isaac nods, and Tommy scrolls through the contacts until he finds Adam’s name. He sets up the message and types out his name, _tommyjoe_ because he can’t figure out the uppercase letters, and because he wants Adam to know that _he’s_ reaching out. He hesitates a little before pressing send, wondering what Adam will think of this, if it’s too forward, or maybe weird to send a picture with no message. But Isaac and Sophie are waiting, and he swallows and presses the button, sending it out with no way to take it back.

He doesn’t plan on waiting for a reply, but before he can hand the phone back to Isaac, it buzzes in his hand. Nothing but a smile, but it’s a smile from Adam, and for the first time, Tommy feels like maybe things will be okay. Not like they were before, but...maybe something else, good in its own way. He thinks of Brad winking at him, and smiles.

“So...fish tacos?” he says, looking hopefully at Sophie, and she grins and takes his hand and pulls him toward the kitchen, and Isaac follows, and Tommy is more hopeful in that moment than he thought he ever would be again.

*

Adam finds a row of cars parked on the street outside the Carpenters’ house, and by the looks of it, he’s the last to arrive. He checks his phone for the time and hopes he’s not _too_ late. It’s not cool to be fashionably late to a friend’s dinner party when he’s bringing the appetizer.

He hadn’t wanted to bring anything, hadn’t really wanted to even show up; he admits to being a little scared of Isaac, after all that’s happened. And Tommy will be here. Of course he’ll be here; he lives here now. It’s been over a month since he’s seen Tommy, and none of their mutual friends are very forthcoming with information about him, how he’s doing, how he’s recovering. Adam doesn’t even know what to expect.

He hesitates outside the front door and rolls his eyes at his own ridiculousness. They did _invite_ him, after all. Things can’t be too dire. He takes a deep breath and reaches out to ring the doorbell, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waits for a response.

Isaac opens the door with a smile on his face, but it quickly falls away as he recognizes Adam on the doorstep. For a moment, they just stand, watching each other. Adam doesn’t know what to say. He can’t remember ever feeling so... _disconnected_. Maybe Leila’s right. He has been isolating himself since the accident, since everything. It’s time.

Adam clears his throat and says, “Hey, Isaac.” Isaac doesn’t respond. Adam looks down at his hands and slowly back up. “Um...I have spinach dip,” he sputters, holding the container out like an offering.

For a moment, he thinks Isaac’s starting to get angry, the corners of his mouth turning down and his eyes narrowing, and the apology is already on his lips when he realizes Isaac’s not mad. He’s _laughing._

“Thanks, man. Come on, come in. Everyone will be happy to see you -- we were starting to think you weren’t coming,” he says, relieving Adam of his burden and stepping aside to let him pass inside.

Adam’s not naive enough to think that all is forgiven, but he can recognize a truce when he sees it. He gives Isaac a grateful smile and looks around, at the table loaded down with dishes and desserts, at the handful of people gathered in the living room. Isaac sets Adam’s container down with the other plates of finger food and gestures for Adam to continue on into the living room, but Adam can’t make his feet move forward.

Isaac follows his gaze to Tommy, sitting beside Sophie on the couch and laughing about something, touching her shoulder, and Isaac says, “It’s okay. I think he’s been wanting to see you.”

At that moment, Tommy looks up, turns his head to face them. He focuses on Isaac first, still smiling, and then his gaze slides over to Adam, and Adam can feel it like he’s been doused in warm water, an all-over tingly warmth. Tommy’s smile doesn’t drop like Isaac’s had, and Adam lifts his hand, wiggles his fingers in an awkward sort of wave.

Tommy’s smile widens, brightening his face even more, and he looks so much better than Adam remembered him. The memories he’s been dwelling on lately have featured Tommy with broken bones, deep bruises, blood on his face and on his pale chest. It’s like a weight has been lifted, seeing Tommy like this -- his hair clean and stylishly messy, his eyes dark with eyeliner instead of sleepless shadows.

Tommy mouths _Hi_ , and then _Adam_ , and Adam breaks into a relieved smile. He nods back but doesn’t approach. It isn’t the time for a tearful reunion, and that’s all it will be if Adam goes to him now. Tommy seems to understand, and he returns to his conversation with Sophie and Ashley. Adam takes the opposite side of the room and mingles, slowly getting used to the easy flow of conversation among friends.

He’s deep into a conversation with Cam about the rescheduled tour and how to fit it in among her other commitments when the noise level in the room suddenly goes from a low murmur of voices to something louder, the mingled sounds of happy surprise. Adam turns to see what the commotion is about, and over the heads of the small crowd, he sees...his brother. His mouth literally drops open. Neil wasn’t supposed to be back from Shanghai for another two weeks. From the look of him, rumpled clothes and tired eyes, he’s only just off the plane.

There are a few exclamations of surprise, and Adam hears Isaac over the din saying, “Didn’t think you’d get back in time!” and Neil laughing in response.

“Just barely. I was so ready to be home.”

Tommy’s standing back from the entryway, but Neil heads right for him and wraps his arms around Tommy’s waist in a tight hug. Adam watches in blank-faced surprise as Tommy hooks his arms around Neil’s neck and accepts the embrace. Tommy hugs everyone, or at least he used to, but Neil... Neil’s ranted often and at length about his dislike for public displays of affection. Adam can’t take his eyes off them, and he sees them talking quietly, and finally Neil lets go, holds Tommy at arm’s length. Tommy smiles and nods and slips away, and Neil turns to meet Adam’s eyes.

Adam’s made up his mind to keep quiet, not ask any questions, by the time Neil gets to him and wraps him up in a hug too. Adam finds himself relaxing into it just as Tommy had, and _fuck_ , he’s missed his brother.

“Missed you,” he says, trying--and probably failing--to keep his voice casual.

“No shit,” Neil replies. He tilts his head in Tommy’s direction. “He looks good. I mean, I don’t know how bad--”

“It was bad.”

“He looks good now.” Adam nods, because it’s true, and he’s glad it’s obvious even to Neil, who’s been away for so long. Then Neil gives him a strange look and says, “So do you.”

Adam lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “I wasn’t... I mean, yeah. I guess. Thanks. But I’m not the one that matters. He’s been--”

“Shut up,” Neil cuts in. “You matter to me, and I’m glad you’re okay. Both of you. I should’ve been here.”

“You were busy,” Adam says dismissively.

“Yeah, but still. Would’ve sucked if you died while I was in another country.” Adam’s quiet for a few seconds, even though he knows he’s meant to laugh. Neil bumps his shoulder against Adam’s. “Seriously,” he says quietly. “Would’ve sucked. I’m glad you’re okay.”

This time, Adam does smile, and he chuckles, because Neil’s waiting for it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Neil smiles back, and Adam’s just about to ask him about his trip when Sophie stands up and raises her voice over the chatter, calling everyone into the next room for dinner. Adam hesitates again as people begin finding their seats at the table, unsure where to go. Then Neil’s at his elbow again, pulling him down to the opposite end from where Isaac and Sophie and Tommy are settling. “Come on, sit with me. I’ll tell you about the time I thought I ordered chicken and ended up with a plate of something with tentacles instead,” Neil says, screwing up his face at the memory.

Adam wrinkles his nose. “You sure you wanna tell me that story while we’re eating?” he asks. Leave it to Neil to start with the gross stuff. But it works, his anxiety fading again, and Adam spends the rest of the meal happily distracted, listening to Neil going on about sightseeing and the people he met and the oppressive state of the Chinese government. It’s not until Neil goes off on a tangent about how the American government is heading the same way, something about proposition this and representative that, that Adam’s attention starts to wander.

His eyes drift to Tommy again, at the far end of the table but easily in his line of sight. He desperately wants things to be normal between them again, but...even now, now that the physical evidence is gone, Tommy’s arm free of its heavy cast and the scratches on Adam’s face nothing but faded scars, everything still feels off. He thinks back to what things were like before, easy friendship with a constant _maybe_ hovering pleasantly in the background. He rubs his hands over his face. Better to never have known.

Adam’s picking disinterestedly at his dessert when Isaac and Sophie stand up at the end of the table, matching smiles lighting up their faces. Isaac raises his arms and waits for the group to quiet, and when Adam glances at Tommy again, he’s watching the two of them with a wide smile on his lips and excitement in his eyes.

Isaac thanks everyone for coming, and then, at Sophie’s nudging, he says, “So, as much as we love seeing you all, we did actually have another reason for throwing this party.” He looks over to his wife, grinning at his side. “You wanna tell them?”

She nods and smiles and rests her hands on her stomach, and blurts out in a high, excited voice, “We’re having a baby!”

The reaction is instant and loud, people clapping and jumping out of their chairs and waiting impatiently for their turn to hug and congratulate Sophie and Isaac. As Adam finishes clapping, he catches Tommy’s face again out of the corner of his eye, pleased and happy, yes, but not surprised. _He knew_ , Adam thinks, and the thought makes him smile. Tommy couldn’t have found a better place to spend his recovery.

Eventually, Adam makes his way to the other end of the room, and he shakes Isaac’s hand and gives Sophie a kiss on the cheek and wishes them all the best in the world. Isaac says something about touring, about maybe missing dates here and there or working a more limited schedule, but Adam waves all his concerns away. Of course he understands, of course. They’ll work something out. There are more important things than work. Isaac raises his eyebrows at that, apparently a little surprised to hear Adam say so, and Adam feels a little twinge of guilt in his chest. But it’s a new tour, a new start, and he has a chance now to fix the things that need fixing. He almost didn’t. Amazing what almost losing everything can do for your perspective.

He drifts away from Isaac and Sophie to let Neil come up behind him and give his own congratulations. As he turns away, he catches sight of Tommy off on his own, edging slowly out of the room. The edges of his smile are starting to look a little strained, not quite reaching his eyes, and after one last glance around, he disappears into the living room, drink in hand.

Adam only hesitates a second before following. He doesn’t know when he’ll have another chance to see Tommy. Now or never.

*

The sudden noise and jubilant atmosphere is a little too much for Tommy to handle, and he backs away slowly until he reaches the doorway, then slips out into the empty living room, where he can finally let his smile drop. It’s not that he’s not happy--he is, he _really_ is--but being around so many people is tiring, especially when they’re watching him, wondering about him, and he has to keep up the cheerful face that says he’s okay. Tommy sinks down onto the couch, clutching his glass of Coke in both hands, glad to be _alone_.

But he isn’t alone. He sees a tuft of dark hair, and then Adam’s eyes as he peeks around the doorway.

“Can I come in?” Adam asks when he notices Tommy watching him.

Tommy shrugs. If he wanted to escape completely, he would’ve gone to his bedroom and closed the door. Besides, the party’s winding down now that dinner’s over, and he and Adam should probably talk.

“Is it all right if I sit with you?” Adam asks nervously.

He wishes Adam wouldn’t ask him about every little thing, but he understands why. Maybe one of the doctors told him to ask, or maybe it’s just his natural reaction to all the shit that happened, to take a step back and give Tommy control. Either way, Tommy’s doctors tell him it’s good for him to take control and decide what he wants and doesn’t want. He wants Adam to sit down, so he nods and tilts his head toward the empty half of the couch. Adam sits.

“Um... How are you?”

“I think I’m better,” Tommy tells him honestly. “I’ve been sober for forty-two days now, and that’s... good. I mean, it’s hard, but it’s good.”

“You look like you’re better,” Adam says. “You look amazing.”

“I just got my cast off the other week.” Tommy lifts his arm and turns it, flexes his fingers. “It’s nice to be able to write again, and... and I started playing guitar again too.”

“That’s great, Tommy,” Adam says. The conversation fades into silence, and Tommy takes a sip of his drink just for something to do. It almost startles him when Adam speaks again, sudden and a little forced. “I’ve been, uh...I haven’t taken anything since the hospital. Not even sleeping pills. Especially not sleeping pills.”

Tommy glances up in surprise. “What do you do if you can’t sleep?” he asks, genuinely curious. He’s no stranger to Adam staying up, reading or watching TV late at night, tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep on tour buses and in unfamiliar hotels. His own sleep has been better, mostly, but he still has bad nights sometimes. They seem much longer sober than they ever did before.

Adam shrugs. “Then I stay awake,” he says simply.

Tommy nods, even though Adam’s solution sounds like torture. Pills were never Tommy’s problem, and he’s glad, because he needs a few different kinds just to get through the day, lately. But he knows it’s scary to let something like that back into your life. That fear is partly what has made him able to stay off booze. That and Isaac.

Tommy feels like he should offer something to the conversation now, so they don’t fall back into an uncomfortable silence. He’s been working on that, contributing more instead of just listening. He says, “Isaac’s been jamming with me. We’ve been, you know... playing old stuff. Messing around with some new stuff. I feel better about it now, you know? Like, since I couldn’t for so long. I mean, even before I broke my arm, I wasn’t playing anything. So that’s... good, I think. It feels good.”

“I’m so glad you can still play,” Adam says fervently. Tommy wonders if there had ever been a doubt that his arm wouldn’t heal. Nobody told him, if there had been.

“Me too,” Tommy says. “Have you been playing? I mean, like... singing, or writing? New stuff?”

“I haven’t really had time to write,” Adam replies, sounding a little resigned. “We’ve mostly been trying to figure out what to do with the tour. Salvage it, I guess.”

Something in Tommy sits up and starts to pay attention at the mention of touring, but he forces his face to stay neutral. It’s Adam’s career, and Adam’s tour, and he promised himself he wouldn’t ask. Instead, he says, “Any luck?”

Adam shakes his head. “It’s not gonna be anything like what it was. Mom and I talked about it for a long time, and I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I can’t imagine trying to deal with five buses and a whole troupe of dancers and all the costumes and props and everything else right now. It would just be too much. Didn’t feel right, after...” He trails off for a moment, but continues before Tommy can reply. He sounds thoughtful. “I think it will be better, in a way, you know? Small venues, just me and a microphone and my band. We really don’t need anything else to put on a good show.”

“You definitely don’t need the special effects,” Tommy agrees. “It sounds like it’ll be good. I mean, for the fans. Something intimate like that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping. And I’m going to rearrange the songs, maybe add in some of those older ones we haven’t played in a while? Give it a whole different feel.”

Tommy nods and licks his lips and stares down at the floor. He promised himself. He did. But... “You keep saying ‘we’...” he says tentatively, letting the words trail off into uncertain silence. When he glances up out of the corner of his eye, he sees Adam staring at him with a strange tenseness around his mouth. Tommy isn’t sure what that means, if Adam’s about to tell him he’s been replaced.

“If you...” Adam says slowly. “You _are_ my band, Tommy. You’re the only one who’s been there through everything, and if you want... If you’re available, I mean... If you’re up to it.”

“You want me back?” Tommy asks, feeling like his heart is about to burst through his chest.

“If you want to,” Adam says. “If that’s what you want. If you’re not ready, or whatever... At your pace, okay? I don’t want to rush it. I want you to be okay.”

“Of course I want to,” Tommy murmurs, turning his head to hide his grateful smile. He’s sure he’s blushing, too.

After a moment, Adam touches Tommy’s knee to get his attention. “Are you really better? I mean... Tommy... Do you still think about killing yourself?”

The bluntness of the question catches Tommy off-guard. It feels sort of like a test, like maybe Adam won’t take him on tour if he doesn’t answer the right way, but this is the sort of question he can’t lie about anymore. He stares down at his feet and says, “Not right now. I feel good right now.”

“Does that mean you’re better?”

“I don’t know how I’m going to feel tomorrow,” Tommy tells him calmly. “I don’t even know how I’m going to feel two hours from now when everybody goes home. But right now, I feel good.”

Adam can’t quite keep the concern out of his voice when he asks, “Is it really that... fragile? One minute you’re okay and the next, you’re not?”

“Sometimes.” Tommy looks up at Adam, and then into the dining room, where everyone is still circled around Sophie, chattering away. “But it’s kind of different now, I think. I want to be around to see this kid, you know? I want her to know me, and I want to be someone she should know. I want to be a role model, I guess. If I can.”

Adam doesn’t answer right away; he’s quiet for long enough that Tommy turns back to look at him, ready to defend his thought process if that’s the problem, but Adam just smiles softly and asks, “You know it’s a girl already?”

“Just guessing,” Tommy replies with a shrug. “Maybe hoping.”

“You always did like girls,” Adam teases, and Tommy rolls his eyes and leans against Adam’s shoulder. This feels so good, so _normal_ , talking and joking with Adam. Like their early days, years ago now, when fame was still new and exciting, flirting easy and meaningless. The wave of nostalgia hits Tommy strong, and he sighs.

“Remember when we used to be good together?” he asks. He hopes Adam understands what he means. He’s not sure how to explain it.

“We were always a good match on stage,” Adam replies. “Always put on a good show.”

Tommy nods. “Never had that with anyone else.”

Adam gives a little hum, remembering. “I don’t know what I was thinking, kissing you. I wasn’t. Stupid, probably.”

“Changed my life,” Tommy replies. “Changed a lot of things.”

Adam glances down at him. “For the better, I hope, despite everything.”

“I...don’t know yet. I’m still figuring things out.” Tommy pauses. “Do you remember the night when you asked me about coming out? About how I needed to think about these things, really think? I wish I’d listened to you then. But I’m thinking now.” He laughs. “My therapist says I’m ‘complicated.’”

Adam laughs at that too. “You are. I don’t know if I’ll ever really understand you, Tommy Joe.”

Tommy sighs. “Me either. But I’m working on it. Just being able to _talk_ , you know? To someone who’s outside the whole...situation. It helps a lot.”

There’s movement in the doorway, and Tommy looks over to see Isaac studying them closely. Maybe Tommy shouldn’t be leaning on Adam like this, but he’s comfortable, and it’s what he wants, so he’s not going to move just because Isaac disapproves. Isaac smiles at him, though, and backs away, leaving them alone. Well, as alone as they can get in a house full of people.

“I talk to Isaac too,” Tommy tells Adam. “He’s helped me a lot, him and Sophie.”

“You seem happier here,” Adam says softly. “I’m glad they’re taking care of you.”

Tommy can practically see Adam blaming himself for everything, and that needs to stop. He lifts Adam’s hand up to his face, fiddles with one of the rings Adam’s wearing, hoping to distract him. “Did you know Brad came to see me in the hospital?”

“Brad, like... _my_ Brad?” Adam asks, surprised. Apparently he didn’t know. Tommy smiles.

“Yeah, him. He told me some stuff that kind of... made me see things in a new light, you know? And the doctors too, they all say it’s not all my fault, and it’s hard to see it that way, but they’re right, and... It applies to you, too, you know. It wasn’t your fault. We’re just... not matched up right. All the stuff that happens onstage doesn’t really translate to real life, I guess. And not because I didn’t want it, because _fuck_ , I wanted it. But we’re not... We don’t want the same things, do we?”

“No,” Adam whispers. “I don’t think we do.”

They sit for a while longer, not talking. The silence is different now, though, not awkward or uncomfortable, just...silence. Eventually, as if at some unspoken sign, they stand, and stretch, and go back to the party. Sophie pulls Tommy into a hug and asks him very quietly if he’s okay -- if _they’re_ okay. And they’re not, quite, not yet, but...Tommy turns and watches Adam saying his goodbyes, and thinks that, with enough time, they will be.

*

Tommy is never alone during the next few weeks. It almost reminds him of being on tour, the constant togetherness that keeps him from ever sinking too low into his own thoughts. Isaac is away at gigs and rehearsals a lot, and Sophie is busy getting things ready for the baby, and Tommy is determined not to slow them down babysitting him. He becomes Sophie’s constant companion, doing things that hadn’t even been on his radar a month ago -- keeping her company in doctor’s waiting rooms and following her around stores, giving his opinion on very tiny hats and socks and bibs. He even steals one of the baby books off the coffee table and starts reading it a little at a time before he goes to sleep at night. He’s going to be living here for...he doesn’t know exactly, but a long time. He’s definitely still going to be here when the baby comes. Isaac and Sophie are doing so much for him. He wants to make sure that, when the time comes, he can be more of a help than a burden.

Whenever Tommy’s not busy with Sophie, he’s busy with other people coming over to the house to see him. Tommy suspects Isaac’s been making calls, inviting people to come and babysit, and Tommy starts wondering if Isaac already feels like a dad, or if maybe this is just practice, keeping a constant eye on Tommy and making sure he’s supervised. Tommy doesn’t balk at it only because the playdates Isaac arranges are actually pretty fun.

Cam comes over several times and they write together, Tommy on his acoustic guitar, playing little segments of songs, letting her hear his ideas as they form, waiting for her verdict. She’s always nice, but Tommy can trust her to be honest when things don’t work. Ashley comes to jam with him every so often too, but they mostly focus on playing old songs, getting through them start to finish, having fun with music in a way that doesn’t put any pressure on Tommy to be perfect. Ashley doesn’t care if he messes up, if his fingers fumble on the frets as he picks through a song they’ve never tried before. Sometimes Isaac has time to join them, and that’s really Tommy’s favorite time to jam, because it starts to feel like the band is back together again. One memorable day, they all manage to get a few hours of free time in their respective schedules, and they play through most of _Trespassing_ from beginning to end, hardly even stopping to talk in between. By the end of it, Tommy is exhausted and his fingers hurt, but he feels more like his old self than he has in a long, long time.

Mike comes over at Tommy’s request. He’s been listening to Tommy’s compositions longer than anyone else, and he’s one of the only people Tommy really doesn’t mind playing his own work for. Mike listens with his eyes closed and a little smile on his face, and when Tommy’s done playing, he’s already talking enthusiastically about a new Mouthlike album, doing some writing and recording and maybe even using some of the songs Tommy’s already written, putting vocals to them and polishing them up and getting them out there. He’s talking so fast Tommy can hardly get a word in edgewise, and he feels a little bad when he shakes his head and tells Mike that he doesn’t think vocals would really work with these songs. It’s a lie. He can hear the vocals in his head, but they’re in another voice. Mike singing them would just feel wrong.

He shouldn’t have worried. Mike hugs him and tells him he’s just glad to see Tommy doing better, and as he’s leaving, he tells Tommy to call him anytime he feels like it, to write or jam or just hang out.

“It’s good to get a call from you that’s not about bailing you out of trouble,” Mike teases gently, and Tommy laughs.

“It’s good to not need bailing out,” he says, and he feels the truth of it all the way down. He really is turning into a different person. A better one. And it does feel good.

Tommy’s lounging around the house on a random Wednesday afternoon, listening to Sophie doing a yoga video in the next room and thinking about a new song, when a very insistent knock comes at the door. Sophie’s in a position that she can’t get out of quickly, and she calls into Tommy’s room to ask him to answer it.

Finding Brad on the doorstep is both surprising, because Tommy still doesn’t consider them _friends_ , and completely unsurprising. It almost feels like an inevitability. Sutan, standing beside him, is much more expected. Tommy invites them both inside and Sutan wraps him up in a hug.

“We’re taking you out tonight,” Brad says, then worms his way between them to get his arms around Tommy too. “And not that you don’t look hot right now, but we’re gonna fix you up right. Where’s your room? You have to change.”

“He brought some of his own clothes too,” Sutan adds with a teasing roll of his eyes. “At least you two are close to the same size.”

Brad takes off down the hall, and Tommy’s not sure how he knows his way around Isaac’s house--maybe he’s about to get totally lost--but they can’t just whisk him off without any warning, without clearing it with Isaac first.

“Wait, wait,” he calls, and Brad skids to a halt. “Where are we going? We can’t go anywhere.”

“You’re not under house arrest, baby,” Sutan tells him quietly. “In fact, I think it’s about time you got out of this house.” He glances through a doorway and sees Sophie on her yoga mat. “Lovely as this house is,” he adds quickly, and she laughs.

Brad saunters back over, all swaying hips and confidence, like he knows exactly how alluring he can be. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna show you a good time,” he says in a low voice. Teasing, Tommy thinks. “Really, Tommy. Don’t worry. We’re going to be with you the whole time.”

“No drinking, no drugs,” Tommy recites. “No--”

“We know the rules. Now come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Tommy gets pulled to his bedroom and deposited on his bed, then Sutan picks through his makeup bag and Brad starts digging through Tommy’s closet. Shirts and hoodies and jeans fly out and land in a pile on the floor, all discarded for being not flashy enough, not sparkly enough, not tight enough, but mostly just _too black_. Brad spins around and puts his hands on his hips.

“Do you even own any colored fabric?”

“Tommy Joe’s a goth vampire,” Sutan says from across the room. “I don’t think you’re going to find anything more colorful than blood-red.”

“Matches the tattoos,” Tommy confirms. “And I’m not gonna wear one of your see-through shirts, so just forget about that.”

“It’s the pants that are see-through, baby,” Brad says. “Gotta make a statement somehow. But no, I think I can work with this.” He sifts through the pile of clothes until he finds the pants with shiny patches on the backs of the knees and holds them up. “Oh look, you do have some sparkle!”

“I did tour with _Adam Lambert_ for six years,” Tommy replies. “I can do glam and glitter. Where are we going, anyway?”

“Out,” is all Brad will say. He dresses Tommy up in the tight pants and a clingy t-shirt, and throws a leather jacket on top. Tommy somehow succeeds in convincing him that his favorite pair of creepers completes the look perfectly. He suspects Brad just doesn’t want to argue with him.

Sutan helps him with his makeup routine, tracing Tommy’s eyes with black little flourishes and dabbing some glittery eyeshadow on his lids while Tommy powders his face. They don’t give him much time to dwell on his appearance before rushing him out the door, but Tommy trusts them to know whether he looks awful or not before leaving the house.

When they get to the club, Brad disappears for a while to make the rounds, since, as he says, he knows like everyone here. Sutan leads Tommy backstage into the expansive dressing rooms and sits him down on a stool in front of the wall of mirrors. Tommy remembers watching the transition from Sutan to Raja on TV, but he’s never seen it done in person, and he watches, fascinated, as Sutan works his magic. Partway through, other people start filtering in, men of all shapes and sizes carrying dress bags and makeup kits and ridiculously massive wigs. Sutan introduces Tommy to all of them, and their names make him grin even though he knows he’ll never remember them.

He’s distracted for a while watching the preparations and listening to the chatter, and when he turns back, Raja is looking back at him from on high, regal in her heels and a long, slinky dress that shows off her tiny waist. She glances at the clock on the wall and then out toward the stage door, looking exasperated.

“If that boy doesn’t make it back here by the time I go on...” she mutters. Then she smiles down at Tommy. “You’ll be all right back here with the girls, won’t you, honey? I’ll only be on stage for five minutes. I think you can trust yourself that long.”

Tommy stumbles to his feet and gives her a shy smile. It still surprises him how nervous he gets around Raja. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “And...you look really beautiful.”

She laughs lightly and leans down to kiss the air by his cheek. “I know,” she whispers, and then pulls away, sweeping out the door to find her place, waiting for her entrance. Tommy wants to watch her perform, but leaving the room seems like tempting fate. Outside the dressing room is the club, and in the club is the bar. It would be the easiest thing in the world to disappear into the crowd and get himself a quick shot. He could probably make it back here before the end of the song. Instead, he shakes himself, _hard_ , and sits on his hands. He’s better than that, now. Stronger. He can sit here and wait for her. He doesn’t need to see.

Just as Raja’s song is starting, Brad rushes into the room, flushed and sparkling with someone else’s glitter. He spots Tommy quickly -- Tommy is easily the smallest person here -- and darts through the crowd to take Tommy by the arm.

“Come on, I know the perfect spot to watch,” Brad says excitedly. “Best view in the house.”

He goes with Brad out of the room, but they don’t turn to go into the crowd like Tommy is expecting. Instead, Brad takes a left, going behind the stage. He pushes heavy velvet curtains aside until he finds the gap he’s looking for, and Tommy follows him through to find himself staring at a ladder. Brad is already three rungs up, looking down at him with a grin.

“Come on!” he says loudly, over the music. “You can see right down through the scaffold, it’s perfect.

Tommy swallows hard against the sudden rush of fear. It’s not that high up, but it is _up,_ and he’s never been too okay with that. But maybe...maybe that was part of the old Tommy. The weak one. Maybe he doesn’t have to listen to that particular voice any more.

He climbs up slowly, knuckles white as he clings to the rungs, and by the time he gets to the top he’s grasping for Brad’s hand, something warm and sure to hang on to. And when he follows Brad’s gaze, looking down, the fear becomes something else, something _thrilling_. He can see everything -- Raja commanding the stage, the DJ surrounded by blinking lights in his booth, the crowd dancing and clapping and pressing up to the front with dollar bills outstretched -- and his face breaks into a breathless grin. He watches in silence for the rest of the performance, taking it all in, this utterly different way of looking at things. Brad never lets go of his hand.

When the set ends, Tommy turns to find Brad watching him, and he ducks his head and blushes. “Thank you,” he says. “This is awesome.”

Brad smiles. “I thought you’d like it. Sometimes you just wanna be above it all.”

They make it back to the dressing room just as Raja is coming back in and someone else is hurrying out to take her place. Tommy has to take a few deep breaths to steady himself in the bustle of the crowd, but mostly, it’s okay. He’s okay. He slips through to the back and finds an empty stool in front of the mirror, next to someone in a curly blonde wig. She’s touching up her makeup, lips pulled tight as she paints on a coat of gloss. Tommy wishes he could remember her name when she glances at him through the mirror.

“Enjoy the show, honey?”

“Yeah! It’s been a while since I’ve been, you know... out. So it was awesome. But I like it back here more,” Tommy says, slouching down and drumming his fingers on his thighs. Raja’s still talking to people, but Brad’s staring back at him, watching him from across the room. Tommy ignores his curiously lifted eyebrows and turns back to the queen beside him. “Do you go on soon?”

“Soon, yeah. I have a dance number at the end.” She extends a hand to Tommy, squeezes a little when he shakes it. “I’m Sherri Bomb. What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Tommy. I’m, uh. I’m here with Raja. And Brad.”

“You been to a drag show before?”

“Yeah, but not... in a long time. I was kind of... not around for a while. Got in a car accident.”

Sherri pouts at him, murmuring, “Oh, baby,” as she digs through her makeup bag. Tommy watches her lean close to the mirror to trace over the eyeliner, darken it, straighten the line of the wing. Tommy tilts his head, captivated.

“You’re really good at that,” he says.

Sherri gives him a look. Her heavy eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheeks. “You’re not so bad yourself, hon.”

Tommy touches his hair, pulls it down over one eye. “Oh, no, I didn’t... I’m not that good. Raja... Before we came, they dressed me up. I wish I was that good.”

She reaches out and takes him gently by the chin, tilting his face this way and that, giving him a searching look. “Anyone ever tell you you have the face for drag?” she asks, and Tommy shrugs. Sutan’s been after him about it for years, but it just sort of...never happened. Maybe he was afraid. He doesn’t know.

Her perfectly drawn eyebrows go up. “I can’t believe Raja’s never done you up all the way! She always was a little too focused on herself, wasn’t she?”

Tommy’s mouth drops open, and he’s trying to think of a way to come to Raja’s defense when she suddenly pops up out of nowhere, pushing her way back by Tommy and sticking her chin out at the other queen. “I heard that, bitch,” she says, all offended, and Tommy wonders how he got himself into this situation. In the next moment, though, the two of them dissolve into laughter, and his anxiety dissipates again.

Raja turns down to Tommy and brushes his hair out of his face. “He’s a natural, isn’t he? Be such a pretty, skinny little thing he’d put the rest of us to shame.”

“Hell yes, he would. We should lock him in a closet or something. He’d ruin us.” Sherri gives Tommy a playful tap on the tip of his nose. “Really, though, I don’t know how you resisted this face. You not into drag, hon?”

Tommy shrugs. “Just never tried it.”

A big queen with huge tits hardly restrained by her dress leans over Sherri’s shoulder. “You lookin’ for a drag mama, baby? I’ll show you the ropes if you want. Gotta get some meat on those bones, first thing.”

Another voice chimes in, higher and younger. “Don’t you dare, Merri! No, honey, you wanna get into a corset. If you start working on it now, you could have real curves by New Year’s. Little waist like that, you’re halfway there already.”

Tommy looks from face to face, trying to keep up with all the advice, all the opinions. Mostly, he just can’t believe they think he could do this at all -- look like them. They’re all gorgeous, and more than that, they’re so _confident_. It would take more than makeup for him to measure up.

Finally, Raja throws her hands up and raises her voice over the rest of the chatter. “Back off, ladies!” she commands. “This one’s mine.”

Slowly, the rest of the queens go back to their business, cycling out to the stage, changing costumes, darting out to the club floor for a chat and a drink. Tommy and Raja are left in the back corner of the dressing room in relative privacy, and Tommy meets her eyes shyly. He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now, but she looks like she understands anyway.

She leans in close and asks, “You don’t have to, Tommy. But if you want...I would be honored to help you. It’s so much better to have help the first time.”

“Do you think... Maybe...” Tommy glances left and right, at all the discarded clothes and makeup strewn across the counters. “You could... Would you?” Raja’s quiet for a few moments, just watching him, and Tommy continues quickly. “I mean, I don’t know how much work it would take. I don’t really have the right--”

“Tommy, you’re perfect just like this. We’ll find you something. Brad!”

Tommy jumps, startled by the sudden shout, but Brad appears at their side in the next instant, surveying Tommy with barely-disguised concern.

“Let me change first, okay?” Raja says, just as Brad’s asking what’s going on. “We’re gonna give this boy a makeover.”

Brad grins and claps his hands together. “Oh my god, about time! I’ve been dying to see him in something _not_ black. Please tell me you’re putting him in a color.”

Raja gives him back something akin to an evil grin, and Tommy feels nerves thrum through him. Maybe he isn’t ready for this. “Get his face clean for me. I need a blank slate to work with,” she says, and sashays off to put Sutan back on.

The process takes longer than Tommy has ever imagined. Sutan is incredibly particular with his face, drawing lines and shaking his head, erasing them and trying again. Tommy is desperately curious to see each layer as Sutan builds them up, but Sutan refuses to let him see until he’s finished, totally engrossed in the work. Brad flits around the room, acquiring bits and pieces of clothing from here and there, promising their owners that they won’t even leave the room. He brings them back for Sutan’s approval, and eventually they cobble together an outfit that will work with Tommy’s size and shape. When he finishes with Tommy’s face, Sutan hands him the clothes and ushers him behind a screen to dress.

Tommy hesitates a moment. “What about...” he says, glancing down at himself.

Sutan raises his eyebrows. “You wanna try a tuck?” he asks, surprised.

“Um, well, I just thought, I mean...” Tommy stutters. Finally, he nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay, baby. Just as long as you know that it’s gonna hurt.”

“I know,” Tommy replies. “But you do it. Might as well do it right, if I’m gonna.”

Sutan smiles and shakes his head. “I can’t believe it took you so long to get here, Tommy, but I’m glad you made it in the end. Come on. And I better not hear any bitching about my cold hands,” he teases.

It’s uncomfortable and awkward and _stange_ , Sutan kneeling on the floor and touching him in a way that should maybe be sexual but is so, so not. He’s clearly an expert, and Tommy mostly just has to bite his lip and try not to let on how much it _fucking hurts._ When it’s finally done, though, it’s really not so bad, everything held in so tight he almost can’t feel anything at all. He holds his breath and reaches down to run a hand over himself, the unfamiliar smoothness, and his heart pounds so hard he thinks he might pass out.

A slightly hysterical laugh escapes his lips, and Sutan glances at him worriedly. Tommy shakes his head, not wanting him to decide it’s too much and make them stop. “No, no, it’s okay, just, I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this. Like it’s not real, or like...like it’s not _me._ ”

Sutan reaches out and strokes his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “It’s real, I promise. You’re gonna die when you see. Come on, hair and shoes and then you’re done.”

Tommy doesn’t particularly want to sit down again, but he’s short enough that Sutan can reach his head well enough with him standing anyway. He pulls out one of his own wigs for Tommy, blonde and gently curled, and spends a long time pinning it in securely and styling it to his liking. Tommy’s never had hair longer than his chin, but this falls just past his shoulders, soft and sweet-smelling, strands catching on his lipstick before being brushed away. Brad holds his hands as he steps into a pair of heels, not as tall as a lot of the ones he’s seen but definitely different than creepers, and even when he catches his balance he finds that he’s not ready to let go just yet.

“Ready to see?” Sutan asks, brushing his hands together and grinning proudly down at Tommy.

Tommy nods, swaying a little in the heels, and with all the hair shifting around his shoulders. Brad, beaming up at him, walks him over to the full-length mirror and steps out of the way, giving Tommy an unobstructed view. He starts with his feet, because he’s already watching the floor, trying not to trip.

The heels are chunky, kind of like his creepers, but the way his foot arches, the way his leg comes up out of them gives him a whole new shape. His legs look _long_ , and he doesn’t really feel taller, but he _looks_ taller. The skirt Brad found for him is swishy around his knees but clingy up at his thighs and hips, and Tommy does an automatic double-take as his gaze slides over his crotch, so smooth without even the shadow of a bulge distorting the fabric. His hipbones poke out at the top of the skirt, in the little sliver of bare skin between the skirt and the glittery, slinky top. It’s red and covered in sequins, sparkling in the bright mirror lights, and it’s really low cut, but rather than highlighting the fact that he doesn’t have breasts, it actually gives the illusion of curves. Or maybe that’s the powder Sutan brushed onto his chest to even out his skin tone, hide his scars.

All the way up to his chin, Tommy feels like he’s looking at a different person. His face, though, is unmistakably him. His features haven’t changed, but they’re highlighted differently, and Tommy recognizes techniques Sutan’s used on Tommy’s stage makeup before: shadowing his cheeks, arching his brows and filling them in, lining his lips to give him more of a pout. But Tommy’s never seen it all put together like this, and he’s never worn these thick fake eyelashes before. Never had hair hanging down to his shoulders, covering his ears. The effect is so feminine and yet so _him_ that Tommy wonders fleetingly if he has a twin sister. It’s quite literally breathtaking, and Tommy knows he should respond, congratulate Sutan and Brad, thank them, but he can’t form a single word.

He’s spent a lot of time in his life looking at himself in mirrors. More than most people, probably. It’s like an addiction that never actually gets him high, only ever makes him feel depressed, fat, ugly, inadequate. He’s never been able to reconcile what he sees there with what people say about him, never. Until now.

Looking at himself now, it’s like he has a new set of eyes. More than that, like he has a new _brain._ The petty little voices, the ones his therapist is always talking about, are silent. _I look good_ , he thinks to himself, and suddenly his eyes are welling up, and he’s trying desperately not to let the tears fall. It would be a shame to ruin all Sutan’s hard work like that.

Brad squeezes his hand tight and leans in against his side. “Tommy? Are you all right?”

Tommy nods and takes a shaking breath, never once looking away from the image in the mirror. He hardly recognizes his voice when he speaks again, slow and a bit awestruck. It’s so obvious it’s silly, but it feels like the most important thing in his world right now. Like things are finally settling in his head, for maybe the first time ever.

“I’m not straight, am I?”

Brad laughs, not unkindly, and Sutan echoes him. “No, I really don’t think so,” someone says, but Tommy hardly hears. It wasn’t really a question.

Sutan bends to kiss Tommy’s cheek, then rubs his thumb over it, wiping away the smear of leftover lip gloss. “You look gorgeous like this, baby. Like this and always.”

Tommy doesn’t blush or duck his head or try to hide behind his hair. He just says, “Thank you.”

“But it’s not really about how you look, is it? I can see it in your eyes. It’s about how it makes you _feel._ ” Sutan really does sound like a proud mother, and Tommy reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it in silent gratitude.

Brad moves behind him and stretches up on his toes to hook his chin over Tommy’s shoulder. He feels weirdly tall in these shoes. Brad’s grinning at him.

“This is one of those things, Tommy,” he says. “You can like whatever you want, and it’s all yours. _This_ doesn’t depend on Adam, or on me or Sutan or anyone else. It’s just you.”

Tommy looks from Brad back to his own face, his heavily made-up eyes and shaded cheeks, the subtle sparkle of glitter across his cheekbones. It is about how he feels, and he feels _pretty_ , beautiful in a way he hasn’t felt since that night, the last night with Adam. And Brad’s right; he doesn’t have to depend on Adam now to feel beautiful, or satisfied, or _worth_ something. He can do that by himself, now. And it feels good.

He stays in the clothes as long as he can, until the show is starting to wrap up and everything he’s borrowed has to be returned. But there’s something that seems to stick with him even after he’s back in his own clothes and his face is clean, something that he clings to tight and hopes will still be there when he goes to bed tonight, when Sutan and Brad have said goodbye and he’s left to face the dark alone.

*

Adam’s had time to study the menu, back and front--plus the list of specialty drinks--twice before he spots Brad coming in through the front entrance, casual and unruffled, like he’s right on time. Adam checks his watch; Brad’s definitely not on time, but Adam considers himself lucky that Brad even responded to his invitation for lunch, so he’s not going to push it. He rises out of his chair, bumping his thighs against the table, and lifts his hand in an awkward wave to get Brad’s attention.

Brad doesn’t smile when he sees Adam, and he doesn’t smile when he sits down across from him, and he doesn’t smile when Adam says, “Hey. It’s been a while. You look good.” Adam sighs and looks back down at his menu.

The waiter comes by for their drink orders, and Brad does smile at him, but once he leaves, Brad gives Adam a distrustful look, a quirked eyebrow and twist of his lips, and turns his attention to his own menu.

Adam digs his fingernails into his thigh, focusing on the dull bite of pain. “Listen,” he says slowly. “I wanted to, uh... apologize. To you. Um...” Brad still isn’t looking at him, and Adam has a horrifying flash of an idea that maybe Brad can’t hear him, maybe nobody can hear him. Or maybe they can, but they’ll never _listen_. The apology bursts out of him, them, uncontrollable. “I fucked up so bad, and I know I made some big mistakes, and I can’t even... I can’t believe how badly I treated you, and I’m sorry, okay? I’m really, _really_ sorry. For everything.”

Brad arches an eyebrow, but keeps his gaze firmly on the menu. “Still seeing _Ziggy_?” he asks, and Adam knows exactly what he means by the question. He thanks Brad inwardly for his sense of discretion. They are in public, after all. Anyone could overhear.

“No, nothing. Not since it happened. I swear, Brad. I’m clean.”

At that, Brad lifts his head. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I’ve been fixing things, everything. Fired my manager, planned a new tour... I’m doing it all _right_ this time. What I should’ve done in the first place.”

“I thought you didn’t do regrets,” Brad quips.

“I don’t regret much,” Adam corrects him. “You make decisions, you have to live with it, but... I regret the things I said... and _did_... to you.” He hesitates, then adds, “And to Tommy. You tried to tell me, and I’m... I should’ve listened. That’s something I regret.”

Brad shifts in his seat, looking almost uncomfortable now as he shrugs and turns his head away. Adam wonders if he’ll hold this grudge. “The time wasn’t right. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. At least, not completely.”

“I know. But part of it was me, and I was in control. I just got too caught up, and it made me hurt you, so I’m sorry. I’m... working on all that. I haven’t seen Tommy in weeks, and even then, just for an afternoon. I’m getting some perspective on the whole thing. That’s what my mom keeps telling me, anyway.”

Brad grins despite himself. “Smart lady. How is Leila?”

“She’s good. I think she’s enjoying running my life _way_ too much, actually,” Adam replies wryly. “But I have to admit, she is good at it. I think she’d like to see you sometime. She asks about you.”

“Does she really?” Brad looks pleased, but before he can say more, the waiter appears to take their order. By the time he’s gone again, the awkwardness is back, and Adam sips at his water just for something to do. He wants to ask about Tommy, about what the hell Brad was doing going to visit him in the hospital. Brad _knows_ he wants to ask about Tommy. But Adam can wait. That’s something he learned a long time ago -- it’ll go better for everyone to let Brad give up what he knows on his own damn time. Otherwise, Adam might not get to hear it at all.

They’ve been through chatting about the awful traffic, and Gaga’s latest attempt at producing music video art, and whether the summer rolls are better in ginger sauce or peanut sauce by the time Brad finally dabs daintily at his mouth and mentions, like it’s just another bit of chit-chat, “I went out with Tommy the other night.”

Adam drops his fork with a clatter. “Went out or like, _went out?”_ he asks, eyes wide.

Brad laughs. “Not on a date, you can relax. Sutan and I just decided it was time for him to get out of the house. Back into the scene, you know.”

“Tommy was never _in_ the scene.”

“Just because he didn’t _know_ the scene,” Brad says haughtily. “Now he does. Well, one part of it, anyway. But I think he enjoyed himself.”

Adam bites back a question about where they went, what they did, and instead focuses on Tommy. He’s allowed to be concerned about Tommy’s health. “Is he... How’s he doing?”

“He looks amazing,” Brad says with a casual shrug. “No more broken bones, no more bruises, just a couple of fading scars.”

Adam puzzles over that for a moment, wondering if he means physical scars or, like... mental ones. Psychological ones. Adam hopes he didn’t fuck up that badly, enough to traumatize Tommy for life.

“We had fun,” Brad continues. “He didn’t go near the bar, and it was just a small crowd, not enough to overwhelm him or anything. He still seems really shy. Not that that stopped me from going out and dancing, but I think he was fine just staying backstage. It’s good for him to get out and see people, don’t you think? I can’t imagine staying cooped up for as long as he has.”

“No, that was...that was really nice of you, to do that for him. He told me you went to visit him in the hospital, too,” Adam says, trailing off.

Brad gives him a piercing look over the rim of his glass. “And?”

“And...I don’t know, it just seems odd. You two were never really friends or anything. Why the sudden interest?”

Brad shrugs. “I just know what it’s like to be figuring things out for the first time. I told you before, Adam. He and I, we have some common interests. I thought it might be good for him to have someone who knows, who’s _been_ there, to talk to.”

Adam swallows hard. “You don’t mean he’s still...I mean, still interested in the...”

“BDSM?” Brad asks plainly. “Yeah. I do mean that. Some of us can’t just turn it off, Adam. I thought you would understand that much, at least.”

“I can. I have to,” Adam says, and he keeps speaking right over Brad’s protest. “No, seriously, don’t argue with me on this one. It’s too easy to get carried away.”

Brad backs down. “Okay. It’s not like I’m going to force you. Just... be healthy and be _safe_ , next time. If there is a next time.”

“I can’t believe he still wants... that,” Adam murmurs.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting it, Adam. And it’s not like that’s _all_ he wants. Sutan got him in drag the other night at the club. You should have seen his face, Adam. It was like he was waking up for the first time,” Brad says with a smile.

Adam is suddenly overwhelmed with mental images, and Brad’s smile widens as if he can see exactly what’s playing out in Adam’s head. “That’s...I mean, I never would have thought...”

“Neither would I. But he’s taking this recovery really seriously. He’s taking it as an _opportunity_. As he should. I won’t say it’s a good thing that things happened the way they did, but even the worst situations can lead to something positive, if you make that choice.”

Adam shakes his head slowly. “You never change, do you?”

Brad’s face goes serious, just for a moment. “I’ve had enough negativity in my life,” he says, and takes a bite of arugula. Adam knows it’s a cue to change the subject. He takes it. He wants Brad’s opinion on something, anyway.

“I told you I’m revamping my tour, right?” Brad nods, politely curious. “I’ve been working with some people, some musicians... rearranging the songs to be more stripped down. Intimate. Kind of reflecting how much life has changed, if that makes sense?”

“It does,” Brad prompts. “I’m sure it’s sounding great.”

“Well, that’s the thing. It does, and I’m working with some amazing musicians, but... I just miss my band, you know?”

“You miss Tommy.”

“Yeah. When I spoke to him a few weeks ago, he seemed excited about maybe-- _maybe_ \--touring again, but I don’t know if he can handle it. I don’t know if _I_ can handle it.”

“A tour is awfully close quarters,” Brad muses. “I don’t know, I can’t speak for him. And I certainly can’t speak for you. Are things that tenuous?”

“You tell me. Is he really getting better?”

“Yeah, he’s... Well, I wouldn’t go right to _fine_ , but he’s not like he was. I think he knows himself a little better now. And on that note, I think you know yourself better too. Spending time together doesn’t have to devolve into... whatever the hell happened before.”

“Hmm,” Adam says, unsure. With anyone else, he knows he could trust himself. With Tommy, it’s always seemed like all bets are off.

“If you really want to know, you should go see him,” Brad says.

Adam winces. “I don’t know about that. What if I...I don’t know, say the wrong thing and like, upset him, and mess everything up again?”

“Well, yes, let’s try to avoid that,” Brad says sarcastically. “But you’re giving him too little credit, Adam. If he says he’s ready, he’s ready.”

“And has he said that?”

Brad shrugs. “Give him a call and see.”

Adam lets the topic drop. He doesn’t want to keep arguing with Brad, not when he’s so unsure. The idea of calling Tommy, just to see, just to _ask_ , straight out, sticks in his mind, though. He finishes lunch and picks up the tab and leaves the restaurant breathing a little easier, now that he and Brad are on speaking terms again.

When he gets home, he pulls out his phone and stares for a while at Isaac’s number. It’s still too soon, for _him_ if not for Tommy, but the thought lingers. He tucks it away for the right time and hopes that when that time does come, he’ll know.

*

Tommy spends almost half an hour roaming the house, restless, picking things up and putting them right back down again, before finally settling on the couch next to Sophie, reading one of her baby books over her shoulder. Isaac comes in after a while and turns on the TV, but he flips through the channels without really pausing on anything, so Tommy thinks he’s feeling a little anxious too. Tommy bears the tension in nervous silence, and Isaac focuses on the television and nothing else, until Sophie makes a frustrated noise and flattens her book against the swell of her belly.

“Oh my god,” she says, “would you both calm the fuck down?”

Isaac shoots her a guilty look and finally settles on a channel, even though it’s playing a commercial. Tommy can’t quite relax, though. His gaze keeps flicking up to the digital display above the TV, counting down the minutes. The doorbell, thankfully, rings right on time.

“Wonder who that is,” Isaac mutters under his breath. “You wanna get it, Tommy, or...”

“You can,” Tommy squeaks, suddenly frozen in place with his toes tucked into the crease between the couch cushions. He feels very small, and nervous in a way he hadn’t even felt before the party. This time it’s different. This time, Adam’s here to see _him_.

Tommy listens as Isaac opens the door. Their greetings aren’t particularly loud, but he would know Adam’s voice anywhere. He closes his eyes to listen, and when he opens them again, Adam is following Isaac into the living room, so tall and perfectly made up and looking more than a little bit nervous himself.

Adam goes to Sophie first, hugging her and exclaiming over her belly and asking her how much longer she has left now. Tommy pushes himself up off the couch and shoves his hands into his pockets, standing awkwardly while he waits for Adam to finish. Finally, Adam turns to face him, and then they’re just sort of staring at each other, and Tommy realizes that he has absolutely no idea what to do next. Normally they would hug, but he doesn’t know if Adam’s okay with that anymore, and he definitely doesn’t want to cross any lines. He ends up holding his hand out like he’s at a fucking job interview or something. It doesn’t feel right, either, but Adam reaches out and gives him a handshake, dwarfing Tommy’s hand in his own and saying, “Hey, Tommy,” and then things are okay again, the first bridge crossed.

Tommy doesn’t know what to say besides “Hey,” so he shifts his weight and looks back and forth between Adam and Isaac and Sophie, until finally Sophie touches his elbow and says to Adam, “You know Tommy’s been writing some music? He’s really good. You should play for us, Tommy.”

Tommy knew this was a possibility, and his guitar is resting on its stand in the corner of the living room, waiting, but he glances up at Adam, wondering if Adam even wants to hear him play. Adam works with so many amazing musicians, songwriters, producers... Tommy can’t compare to that, and he doesn’t want Adam to think he’s pretending he can. He stands very still and his thoughts tangle up in knots, and he can’t look away from Adam’s face.

Adam’s eyes are soft, then curious. “I’d love to hear,” he says. “If you have something you wouldn’t mind sharing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Adam says earnestly. “I’ve missed, you know... hearing you.”

Tommy exhales sharply and goes to pick up his guitar. It’s his favorite acoustic, one he’s been writing with, experimenting with a lot lately, and once he picks it up, he feels comfortable with it in his hands. He takes it to his spot on the couch and settles with the guitar over his lap, hoping everyone else will sit down now too.

Adam takes the opposite end of the couch, one leg curled beneath him so he can sit sideways and face Tommy. Tommy stares at him, sees Isaac turning off the TV and guiding Sophie into his seat in the recliner and then perching on the arm, and then it’s quiet, and they’re all watching him, waiting. He takes a few seconds to check his tuning, more to give his hands a chance to stop shaking than out of any real need for it. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and calls up a song in his head, and he starts to play.

Playing his own music has always felt different from playing anything else -- easier and harder, both. He can make changes on a whim if he feels like it, letting the music take him where it will. But he also has to believe in it, because there’s not a familiar tune to keep him in line, to fall back on. It would be easy to give in to the temptation to make it _better_ as he’s playing, to change it to something he thinks his audience would like more, but it’s always a bad idea. He’s learning that, slowly but surely. More than anything else, the music is for _him_ , born of his own experience, his love and loss and pain. He puts everything he has into it as he plays, all the convoluted emotions seeing Adam has brought up again, and he lets one song flow right into the next, until he just plain runs out of music. When he finishes, the last chord ringing out into the sudden silence of the house, he lets out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Then he opens his eyes and waits.

He finds Adam with his mouth open and his eyes shiny and bright, sparkling, maybe, like he’s about to cry. And Tommy’s seen Adam cry before, for all sorts of reasons, everything from sadness to just too much emotion onstage, but this is somewhere in between, and Tommy understands that. It’s how he feels, too, sometimes. Especially when he’s playing his music, feeling it inside himself. It’s a strange mix of pride and sadness and the joy of human connection, still, which Tommy can’t figure out. But it’s what he feels, and it’s how Adam looks, and Tommy finally, _finally_ feels like they’re on the same page again.

“That was beautiful,” Adam tells him, and Tommy can see that he means it, but Adam keeps trying to convince him anyway. “Really, Tommy, that was... I’ve never heard you play like that, that was really, really beautiful.”

The praise bubbles up in Tommy’s chest until it feels like his heart is going to burst. He shifts the guitar in his lap and strums a chord, preparing to play again without even deciding to do so. He clears his throat and flashes a quick smile up at Adam, nervous again, but eager, too. “I have something else,” he says. “This one’s kind of, um, incomplete? But I could play it for you. If you want.”

Adam gestures wildly and says, “Please, yeah.”

Tommy shakes out his fingers and starts playing again. This song is different from the others -- it’s more a chord progression than anything, a little bit melancholy but shifting into major brightness toward the end. Tommy repeats it over a few times, adding a little flourish there or a fill here but mostly just keeping it steady, moving his fingers through the familiar formations.

He’s imagined Adam singing along with this piece so many times that it takes him a few bars to realize Adam really _is_ singing, soft and wordless and under his breath, but really singing, putting a melody to the chord structure Tommy’s laid out. Tommy can’t help looking up at Adam’s face, and Adam immediately claps a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide. Tommy’s fingers stutter to a stop.

“Oh my god, Tommy, I’m sorry! It’s your song. I promise I won’t do it again. Go on, go ahead, it sounds awesome,” Adam says quickly, looking for all the world like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“No,” Tommy murmurs, “No, that’s not... Keep going. That was good, I liked it.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Keep going,” Tommy insists. “Please?”

Adam’s quiet for a moment, then he adjusts his posture, gives Tommy a steady look, and says, “Start it again.”

This time, because he’s expecting Adam’s voice, Tommy keeps his head up to watch. He plays through the song again, a little bit slower, and Adam sings along, louder this time, modulating as he goes to try and find just the right combination of notes. When he runs into one that doesn’t quite fit, Tommy stops and goes back to the beginning of the phrase, playing it again as many times as Adam needs to get it to work. And eventually, piece by piece, they have a melody.

When they’ve gone back through it again, beginning to end without a single sour note, Tommy pauses and rests the guitar on his lap, looking at Adam. He’s never really written with a partner before. Never even wanted to. This is...this is organic, and easy, and it _works._ He’s never been so inspired in his entire life.

“Does this song have words, Tommy?” Adam asks quietly, watching him across the couch.

Tommy nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does.”

Adam looks over toward Isaac and Sophie. “Any chance I could borrow a notebook?”

Isaac stands up and says, “Yeah, of course, just let me...” He goes into the kitchen and comes back with a notebook and pen, handing them over to Adam with a smile on his face.

“Sweetheart?” Sophie says, her voice light. “I’m tired again. Come rub my back until I fall asleep?”

Tommy ducks his head and laughs to himself. He loves Isaac and Sophie, with all his heart, but they are really not the most subtle people in the world. Isaac goes to give Sophie his hands and pull her out of her chair, and he keeps his arm around her waist as they cross to the far hallway. He looks back only for a moment. “We’ll be just in the next room, okay?” he says, looking at Tommy.

Tommy waves him away. “Go, cuddle. Enjoy,” he says, and turns his attention back to Adam. “Should I start from the beginning again?”

“Yeah. Nice and slow. We’ll see if anything comes,” Adam says distractedly, already scribbling down ideas.

Tommy loses track of how many times he plays through the song, first in bits and pieces, and then all the way through, but by the time Adam has a two-page spread full of notes and lines and lyrics and little doodles, his fingers are aching with a pleasant sort of soreness that he’s actually missed, in his time off tour, no longer jamming regularly or playing gigs. He lets the guitar sit across his lap and drums his fingers lightly across the front, working the cramp out of his wrist.

He’s surprised to find that it’s dark outside, and that they’re still alone. He can hear Isaac in the kitchen, so he knows they’re still technically being supervised, but unless he’d completely zoned out and missed it, neither Isaac nor Sophie had come back into the living room to check on them all afternoon. They’ve just worked together all afternoon and into the evening, like completely normal people. Tommy can hardly believe it, but there proof is right there in front of him, the skeleton of a song sketched out on lined paper. A song they’ve written together.

“I left the singing for you, you know,” Tommy admits suddenly. “It seemed right.”

Adam looks up from the notebook and meets his eyes. “It felt right. It’s...it’s been a long time since I worked on a song that wasn’t engineered for top forty radio. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like. Thanks for, you know... letting me be a part of it. I know these songs mean a lot to you.”

“You know you’re amazing. Of course I’d want you to be a part of it.” Tommy picks at a hangnail on his thumb, brings his hand to his mouth and bites at the edge of it, avoiding Adam’s gaze. The lyrics are less explicit than Tommy imagined they would be, but it’s still a very open, intimate song. Tommy’s never written anything so intensely personal before, and it seems natural to share it with Adam, the one person who’s been through the same thing. Rather than feeling vulnerable, exposed by the music, Tommy feels relieved at having gotten it out onto paper, out of his mind and his heart. “Thanks for singing for me. I think... I mean, I am glad you came over. But I think it was good, right? Do you think?”

“Yeah. It was nice, writing with you. You are really fucking good, Tommy Joe. Seriously.”

For the first time, Tommy gets the sense Adam is looking up to him, admiring him in the way that Tommy’s always admired Adam and his other idols, guitar gods and musical geniuses. He’s never felt worthy, before now, and Adam’s never looked at him quite like this, like he’s really someone special, completely separate from any love or attraction they have for each other. Adam admires him for what he can do, not just what he can be. Tommy lets the guitar slide off his lap and sits up straight, because he wants to embody that praise. He wants to live up to it.

“I never knew you could write like that, or, hell, _play_ like that. You been holding back on me? I never realized...”

“Neither did I,” Tommy says quietly.

“Well, I want to write with you more. Now that we know. I’d really love to do this again, if that’s something you want too.” Before Tommy can answer, Adam’s speaking again, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! And I want you on tour with me, if you want to come. Maybe we could even work this song into the set. You know, when we get it finished. If that’s okay with you.”

“I don’t know if it’ll fit with...”

“Everything’s different now, Tommy. This is what I want to sing about. This is what I want to show people. And I’d like you to be there with me.” He pauses and takes a breath, and Tommy knows he’s about to say something important by the look in his eyes.

“As partners?” Adam asks, tentative and hopeful, holding out his hand again.

Tommy feels the hope, the happiness welling up inside him, and it breaks out into a smile. He nudges aside Adam’s hand, moving in with his whole body instead, wrapping his arms tight around Adam’s neck and speaking with his mouth pressed close to Adam’s cheek.

“As friends.”

 _fin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **silentdescant** : First of all, I have to thank our lovely, awesome betas for giving us such a quick turnaround with their notes. I know this fic is really fucking long, so it was amazing how fast and thorough they both were. I was really glad to have a third party perspective, after being so absorbed in this universe for so long. And wow, were we absorbed. I think most people know that Sarah and I both signed up to write for LBB separately, and we were both on the verge of dropping out when we decided to combine forces and write together. Best. Decision. Ever. This fic is not for everyone. It is for me, and it is for her, and we had the very best time working together on it. I hope it will find a life with some of you, at least, but mostly, I'm just happy we wrote it at all. We wanted to break the mold and write what we've always wanted to read, something that hasn't really been done before in this fandom, and I think we succeeded. Thank you for being so supportive when we kept teasing you on twitter, and thank you for reading.
> 
>  **Sulwen** : First and foremost, I want to thank my writing partner. Jen – thank you for getting us unstuck every time we stalled, for putting up with my moods both good and bad, and for enjoying all the same crazy kinky dark stuff as me! Love you, girl. Can't wait to do it all again.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who looked at this fic while it was a work in progress, especially @theonecalledeli for doing a wonderful preread and @isweedan for being our hero and giving us an amazing last-minute detail beta! And to @therudebunny for making such beautiful art and giving us some of our very first feedback – thank you so much! Loved working with you all!
> 
> Last but not least – thank you to my dear Twitter feed. You listened to me whine and moan (and tease!) for months, and you went above and beyond to answer every research question I asked you. I love you all more than you know!


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